


My Kingdom for a Horse

by Stranger



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stranger/pseuds/Stranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Klaus is guarding a priceless work of art.  Eroica disrupts his life, as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Kingdom for a Horse

**Author's Note:**

> Written early 1990s. Set during the 1988 Seoul summer Olympics.

The bar on Tsetse Street was filthy. Major Eberbach sat gingerly on a cracked bench and hoped he looked like a tourist. God knew, there were enough of them in Seoul just now, though most had the sense to stay out of Tsetse Street.

The man beside him on the bench finished his filthy drink, got up, and left, much to the Major's relief. He disliked Turks on principle, and disliked Turks who didn't wash whether there were principles or not. The manila packet he'd brought had gone with the Turk. Good riddance. He hated these stupid, trivial courier assignments that always seemed to take him into some disreputable area of whatever disgusting city NATO Intelligence had sent him to lately. Duty was duty, but some duties were cleaner than others, and this one stank. He wondered if this bar actually sold liquor a person might want to drink.

A shadow blocked the dusty light in the doorway, and Klaus let his peripheral vision pick up the newcomer. A Westerner, probably too dumb to stay in the tourist-thick areas of the city, which were relatively safe. The tall, fair-haired figure took a step into the room, out of the dazzle of sunlight.

Klaus did not move, though he would have liked to leap up and hit something, nor did he let any expression cross his face. His mind produced a string of childish curses in German. There was no escape from this close-sided little room, whether it was design or awful chance that brought Eroica to cross his path even here, half a world away from civilization.

"Hul-lo," said the Earl of Gloria, melodically. He sounded delighted, and not particularly surprised. "May I join you, Major?" He headed for the bare spot on the filthy bench, recently vacated by the Turk, without waiting for an answer.

At least the Earl wasn't a Turk. He smelled of roses and brandy and nothing whatever to do with Turkish-Balkan politics, or even Korean bars, which was amazing under the circumstances.

"Let me buy you a drink," said the Earl, and ran a languid hand through his incredible mass of hair—yellow as gold and quite ridiculously long. His ruffled lawn shirt and foppishly-cut pants were equally ridiculous. The Koreans in the place had already gone back to their drinks, but Klaus was willing to bet they'd remember the Earl, and the incident, and therefore him. Lousy job all around. This was supposed to be a covert assignment, wasn't it? And Earl Dorian Red-fucking-Gloria had to come and mess it up with one of his English whims.

The Earl was saying something to the proprietor in what sounded like terrible Korean. Klaus hoped so, and was sourly pleased when the Korean shook his head. The Earl smiled like English sunlight and repeated himself.

Shaking his head again, the Korean reached for a bottle, uncapped it, and poured some pale gray liquid into two tiny porcelain bowls. He placed them before the Earl and retreated, still shaking his head.

"Have one, Major," said the easy, incongruous, English voice, and one of the foul-smelling little bowls was pushed to touch his fingertips. The Earl picked up the other. "Skoal," he said, even more incongruously. He grinned and tossed it back.

Just to show him that no German would back down from an English pansy, Klaus picked up the bowl, cool even in the summer heat and aromatic even in the fetid bar, pronounced an ironic "Prosit," and swallowed the contents, also in one gulp.

It took two layers of skin off the back of his throat. Klaus let the tears well up and subside, and swallowed carefully on an aftertaste of flyspecked bamboo splinters. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."

"Oh, yes," said the Earl, still grinning. "It's good to see you, Major." He waved at the barkeep, flourishing a sheaf of currency, and added something in broken Korean. The man impassively lifted the same bottle from the shelf and refilled their bowls.

"I can't say the same," growled Klaus, ignoring the renewed offering.

"Drink up and tell me how you like it," ordered the Earl, and drank from his bowl, his air of languid pleasure unimpaired as the liquid went down.

Klaus drank. The stuff took two more layers off his throat, and he forced a smile. "Very good, for washwater."

"You're in a nice mood this afternoon. Are you off duty?" The Earl played with his empty bowl, seemingly unaffected by the contents. Eberbach could feel heat glowing in his stomach already.

"Yes." His duty for today had ended when the Turk walked away with the manila-wrapped packet.

"Then come with me." It was an invitation, seconded by a flutter of eyelashes.

The Major discounted the flutter, with which the infuriating Earl accompanied every third statement, including instructions to his accountant. "Going to steal something, Eroica?"

"I had something in mind."

The hot Korean afternoon was buzzingly silent, world distant. Klaus said, "And you're asking me along," with neither belief nor disbelief.

"I couldn't do it without you."

Klaus didn't bother to register his outrage at the sheer effrontery of the man. It only encouraged Eroica. Meanwhile, a third serving of the gray liquor appeared in front of him. He glared at it.

"Don't stop now," said the Earl, lifting his bowl. A faint scent of roses still hung around him.

Klaus continued to glare at the drink for a moment, then seized it and let it sear its way to his stomach. He blinked as the room wavered. "Then let's go."

A hand steadied his elbow on the way out of the bar. Klaus shook it off.

Tsetse Street was hot and dirty, and it also wavered around the edges. The Earl's open car whisked them away and into the cleaner tourist quarter, which was also too hot, even in Klaus's civilian clothes.

"I hope," he said, as the car wove through steaming traffic, "you don't think you can disrupt the Arts Festival." His cover assignment in Seoul was providing security for a T'ang figurine lent to the Koreans by a very nervous and possessive French government. The bit of pottery wasn't much bigger than an automatic, but a thousand times as valuable. To the French. How like the French to make a fuss over a clay horse.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Major." Klaus didn't trust that tone of voice from Eroica. "I had something very different… much more interesting… in mind."

Through the heat and haze, Klaus sensed danger. "What?" he demanded, turning to face the Earl.

"Not in the middle of the street," said the other equably, smile unimpaired. "Unless you want to go back?"

It was _very_ hot. "Of course not!" Klaus snapped. "I just hope your destination is cooler than this." He had to make a conscious effort to refrain from loosening his tie.

"I think that can be arranged." The car continued its detour around the Festival and Games paraphernalia until it reached a substantial-looking hotel. The Palace of Seoul Hotel. Eberbach's hotel. And, it seemed, the Earl's.

Nonplussed but not precisely alarmed—and at least the hotel was air-conditioned—Klaus let himself be taken inside, trailed by the Earl's chauffeur and another flunky. The two attendants dropped out somewhere between the lobby and a lavish suite which was _not_ his room. Confused, and irritated at not knowing why, Klaus rounded on the Earl. "Now what?! Why are we here?"

"Sit down, Major, make yourself comfortable. We were going to discuss a little adventure of our own. Since you seemed interested."

Klaus sat. "Oh, yes?" He thought he was interested. He recalled mentally chucking NATO and Turks and screwball courier assignments into some hell that was probably the antechamber to Seoul at the Summer Games, which was why he'd followed Eroica. He wondered if it had been a bad plan. Eroica, or Lord Gloria, was now sitting beside him and the odor of roses was stronger than ever.

The Major arranged himself in an unyielding posture. "Is this another of your indecent propositions?" His head was clearing, just slightly.

"Yes."

The stared at each other across several inches of electrically-charged space. Klaus wondered why he hadn't yet dismembered some part of the Earl of Gloria's revoltingly available body. And why he shouldn't.

"Give me one reason," he growled, "that I shouldn't get up and walk out." He had no trouble holding the Earl's eyes in their staring contest. Too late, he realized it was a bad tactic: the Earl had no reason to break the gaze. Klaus had never met anyone with more aplomb, as long as he got…

The Earl leaned in, smoothly, and kissed him full on the mouth.

… what he wanted.

"You—" Klaus began, hotly.

"—pervert," finished the Earl. "Yes, I know. You asked for a reason." He sat back and surveyed the stunned Eberbach, who was not, yet, getting up or walking out. "Good enough?"

"You _pervert_." Klaus could not think of a sufficiently abusive line of argument. Mere insults would not do.

"Yes?"

"Never do that again!"

The Earl drew back and sat with slightly less than his usual grace, staring at the pattern on the upholstery. At least he wasn't looking at Klaus any longer.

Presently he said, "You're still here."

Klaus, who had spent the last few minutes noticing that same fact and seething, had no answer. Except that if he left, the Earl would only renew this ridiculous campaign again, probably in some less convenient time and place.

"Perhaps you wish you hadn't said that quite as you did," ventured the Earl.

"I wish you hadn't _done_ that!"

There was a faint sparkle back in the blue eyes. "Why not?"

"Mein… I think it's obvious."

"Not to me, Major. You'll have to make it very clear. Remember, I'm in love with you. I liked it a great deal. I'd like to do it again. And more. And you haven't taken any action to stop me."

Klaus blazed an incandescent glare at him.

"Yet," added the Earl softly.

Klaus sighed in what he hoped was pure fury. "Eroica." He turned to focus more closely on the other man. "No, _Dorian_. Let us settle this."

Under his angry gaze, the Earl smiled, aplomb back in place. "Yes."

_Don't touch me. Don't say you love me. Don't confuse me. Don't appear from nowhere when I need someone most, and you least. Don't make me want half of what you give me when I can't take it and can't give you the other half. Don't… _

"Don't…" he said finally.

His companion edged closer and picked up a hand that lay stiffly beside his stiffly-held body. "Yes," said the Earl. Klaus let it rest, passive, between the two warm hands that held it. He felt frozen, staring now into space, not looking as Dorian pressed his hand slowly. The only heat in his body came from that hand. "Don't what?" came a whisper, after a long time.

Klaus had no answer. A long, smooth arm laid itself around his shoulders, and warmth pressed up against his side. Klaus felt himself falling, which was odd since he was still sitting bolt upright, frozen in place.

His tie was being loosened, and a hand combed gently through his hair, fingertips rubbing at the back of his neck. He didn't move. The fingertips slid back up into his scalp. He closed his eyes.

"You're breathing, Major. I know you're alive." He didn't move.

"I'd like to kiss you again." The hand was combing through his hair again. It was… it felt… Klaus only shuddered and said nothing. "Very much," said Eroica's voice. The warmth at his side shifted, and curls brushed his cheek as a weight came to rest on his shoulder. "Want to stay like this all night? I would, if that's all you'll do. I will." Dorian settled himself firmly around Klaus, relaxed, warm…

It was not at all easy to open his eyes, or move. It would have been impossible to speak, in any language. Klaus flexed his free hand, to make sure it was still there, then lifted it carefully, not changing position, and put it on the head that nestled on his shoulder. He stroked the soft curls, tentatively.

"Mmm," said Dorian, pushing up into the motion. The hair was warm. The head was warm. His stroking hand, cold until now, was becoming warm. Dorian turned his head and kissed the hand; his lips were warm.

By some odd metamorphosis, Klaus was no longer sitting up. His arms were around Dorian, and he was warm and lightheaded and shaking uncontrollably, and he was very, very aroused. The warmth pulsed in his groin, aching.

_No_, he thought. He shifted, trying to ease it.

"Ahh," said the English voice. There was an arm around him, urging him to stand. Wordlessly, it guided him across the room and into another, dimmed by closed blinds, and cool. Wordlessly two arms slid around him and another body pressed against him, rubbing irresistibly. Hands began to undress him, considerate of his aching need, wasting no time in their smooth motion.

"Dorian," he finally said, as the deft hands worked on his shirt buttons.

"Mmm?"

He put out his own hands and caught the lithe body, tall as himself. He could not, after all, quite manage to kiss that wide, ready mouth, so he looked the Earl in the eyes and waited.

It took only a moment. Dorian kissed him, easily and softly, and drew back with an expression Klaus could not interpret. It was not triumph or mockery. Then the mobile features shifted to an uncomplicated, lustful happiness as Dorian's hands slid downward again, sure and knowing.

If Klaus was uncertain then, Dorian was not. The hands and body guided him to certainties of desire and release, held him, coaxed him to respond in kind, all without words.

# # #

Lying amid rumpled silk sheeting in Dorian's rose-scented bedroom, Klaus realized that he no longer felt hot or cold. He wasn't angry. He was sure there was something very wrong in all this. Somewhere. He remembered the preceding hour perfectly, without gaps or fuzziness. He hadn't been influenced by anything but Dorian.

Whatever he felt now, it was different. Peaceful. He hoped it was temporary.

He didn't understand it, so he reached for the pack of cigarettes that lay on the night-table in the muted late-afternoon glow.

Just now, while Dorian was silent, he couldn't regret doing it; so he smoked.

Dorian caressed his leg through the sheet. Klaus, intent on his second cigarette, scowled at him without malice. "So once isn't enough for you, Dorian."

"'Dorian'… I like that from you. Better than 'pervert.'"

"I'm trying not to think about that." Klaus lit his third cigarette and set the lighter back on the night-table. He inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke.

"I like that brand… you taste of it, you know."

It was an effort to raise his eyebrows in cool disdain, and Klaus knew he was blushing to the waist.

"And once is never enough." Dorian laughed up at him, sprawled in carefree abandon and not a little immodesty over two-thirds of the huge bed.

"What if it is for me?" inquired Klaus.

Dorian bounced playfully. "I doubt it, you sturdy bundle of wire ropes, you. I'll bet…"

Klaus tapped ash into a cut-crystal ashtray. "And you'd be right." He had no intention of yielding to Dorian's habitual extravagance in some areas. "But I have other priorities as well."

"What could be more important than love?"

Klaus closed his eyes in irritation. "You mean fucking?"

"I mean love," said Dorian, sitting up, and his mouth was sculpted in uncompromising firmness. "I haven't spent years chasing you all over the globe, stealing anything NATO wanted, and driving my people to distraction, just for a piece of ass. I wanted _you_, and I mean _you_, Major Klaus Heinz von dem Eberbach. Although," he allowed a sidelong glance to soften his expression, "the ass is quite as nice as the rest of you."

Klaus felt himself blush again and lit a fourth cigarette. "I don't propose to discuss it."

"How about doing it?"

"Soon," said Klaus, watching smoke wreathe upwards. "You are childishly enthusiastic."

For a moment Dorian's face clouded; then he leaned toward Klaus with a smile that was not so much sly as knowing. "Childish, lover?" He took the cigarette from Klaus's lips and kissed him. "Childish… ?"

"Heedless, then." Klaus caught a hand that was poised to dive beneath the sheet. "Is one night enough for you, or will you want more?"

He observed with pleasure that Dorian could be shocked. And that he recovered quickly. "You aren't humoring me, Klaus. I know better than that." His voice was level. "Don't pretend to be humoring me."

"You want honesty, Eroica?" Klaus shrugged. "I haven't noticed that consistency was your strong point."

The blue eyes became suspiciously brighter, but the voice remained level. "Except with you. Maybe you've noticed me now and then, as you work."

"You were hard to miss. Very well, Dorian. Could you give up something because I ask you to?"

"What?"

Orange sunset light filtered through the blinds. "This childish stealing of yours. Half the time you don't even keep the booty. It can't be so important to you."

"I keep the beauty, always. The object may go, but the beauty remains. Beauty is always important."

"I thought love was always important."

Dorian favored him with a sublime smile. "You are right. And right again. If you ask it, I can give you anything."

"No more raids on the Louvre? No stealing anything from the Arts Festival?" Klaus persisted. He dared not name the T'ang figurine he was responsible for. He dared not give Eroica ideas that could only lead to a nasty Franco-Korean incident with inevitable Soviet implications.

"For you instead? I promise." Dorian snuggled closer to Klaus, distractingly.

That had been too easy, but it did not seem necessary, just at the moment, to think about it, or pick up another cigarette, or do anything but pay heed to Dorian's seductive hands in the soothing, wordless evening silence.

Some time later, as he lit his fifth cigarette in the dark, Klaus wondered about the promise. Eroica, give up the limelight? Eroica, leave his dedicated career of thievery—could one call it a lifework?—for any one person? For how long?

Dorian, sleeping beside him in a tumble of golden curls, gave no answer.

# # #

Waking in Dorian's bed was considerably stranger than going to sleep there, lulled as he had been by relaxation deeper than anger, by pleasure he could not acknowledge but which had happened, nevertheless.

Klaus woke, as always, a precise hour before he went on duty. At his first move, Dorian stirred. "Leaving so soon?"

"I'm on duty at the Arts Hall." There were others who might wish to steal a French horse and embarrass the Korean authorities.

Impossibly healthy blue eyes blinked up at him in the morning light. "I hoped you were here just for me," Dorian complained softly, without heat.

"What you hope means nothing to NATO." Klaus supposed that what NATO hoped still meant something to him. He had absolutely no idea what his Chief would say about Dorian. He wasn't at all sure what _he_ thought about Dorian.

"Will you be off your duty at six in the afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Meet me at the Tsetse Street drinking house?" The eyes closed again.

"If I can." Klaus didn't think about it as he strode out, toward his own less palatial room in the hotel. He felt nothing, nothing different… except that he was no longer perpetually annoyed with Eroica.

It was almost an effort to display his usual temper to the subordinates in the Arts Hall security office. Iron Klaus had a reputation to maintain, so Major Eberbach maintained it. The display hall sensor system was in perfect order. Gut. The day guards had all checked in. Gut. The art pieces were accounted for by Mr. B's own eyes this very hour. Das ist in Ordnung, Herr B. B, a Frenchman, swallowed a reply that would have sent him to Alaska for months.

The man at the signals desk began rustling papers without permission. "What is it, Mr. A?"

"Message incomplete, sir." Mr. A went on scribbling without a break as the information came through his earphones. He didn't look happy.

The Major read the transcript over his shoulder, word by word. "Disturbance in the main display hall…" Hell, another security alert, first action of the day. "…No items touched in the outer room…" Nuisance raid or sensor malfunction? "…Guards on station found sleeping…" Ice weighted Klaus's stomach. It was too familiar. "…high-security displays show tampering, T'ang horse missing… Calling card left in its place…"

Abruptly his bad temper wasn't an act. "B," he said, voice freezing, eyes blazing, "Mobilize the outside guards. Now! Eroica has the T'ang!"

Mr. A had an open line to the Korean liaison ready for him. "They're briefed already, sir."

Klaus seized the receiver. "Get after Eroica!" he barked into it. "Helicopter with English markings is the most probable vehicle, but don't discount anything. He'd do anything!"

The receiver spat something terse at him about possible damage during capture.

The shock calmed him. "No, none, treat him like fresh eggs. The figurine is breakable and very valuable. And NATO wants him in one piece, do you hear me?"

Klaus hung up on the gibbering reply and punched buttons on the telephone himself. To the Palace Hotel… to Dorian's suite… The phone rang unanswered.

_Dorian, I believed you. Almost. You faithless, lying bastard! You… you pervert… _The Major dashed to join Mr. B's team, running after them to the display gallery where the T'ang horse had been, surrounded by the best security in Seoul.

The nondescript figurine precious to both the Korean Cultural Affairs Department and to one larcenous English peer with a soul as shallow as sunlight—had gone. The usual mocking note from Eroica lay on the velvet display stand, weighted to fool pressure sensors. How the switch had been accomplished through a locked, monitored case, no one knew. The guards were sound in gas-drugged sleep, the soporific introduced when the air-conditioning system had been turned on for the day. Clever, beautiful, harmless, and a completely vile trick.

"Damn you, Eroica!" _Damn you, Dorian!_ He couldn't have said the Christian name aloud, even if the Arts Hall staff, and his own subordinates, weren't clustered well within earshot. Klaus had not expected a great deal from the spoiled Earl, but, yes, something. Something to acknowledge his worthless promise. But, what would a spoiled child know about promises and loyalty?

Klaus pulled his mind away from the thought and began giving orders.

# # #

Perhaps not surprisingly, neither Eroica nor any of his team were to be found in Seoul. Nor did Dorian meet Klaus in the Tsetse Street drinking house.

At nine, with the sun gone down, Klaus dismissed the team that had accompanied him to Tsetse Street, leavomg a backup team around the odd little native bar under Mr. C's supervision. He went back to the Palace of Seoul.

Dorian had not checked out. Oversight or deliberate message? The hotel management was confident of the Earl of Gloria's return, though no one would give Eberbach, even at his most menacing, an answer as to when or how. Either he was losing his touch, or they really didn't know. Klaus retired to the hotel bar to brood.

Loyalty, he reflected into a shot glass full of German whiskey, was a wonderful thing. When you could get it.

_Damn you, Dorian. You lying, perverted, burn-in-hell bastard. You said you loved me, Dorian. I don't know what that should mean, but more than a piece of old pottery._

He'd chosen his table carefully in the clean, Western-style bar. He could see the door; casual drinkers couldn't see him in the comfortable gloom. In essence, if not in distance, it was a long way from Tsetse Street.

_Hell. I'm going to burn in hell anyway, after an Intelligence career. What's hell? Seoul? Someplace like this?_

There were no exotic clay bottles here, full of quaint native aphrodisiacs. Klaus smoked, and left his drink untouched, and brooded. It must have been a vile, sneaking, Oriental trick of an aphrodisiac, if it had led to a night with Dorian.

If so, it hadn't worn off yet. Klaus remembered the whole of the night with vivid, inextinguishable longing, shame for the longing, and relief at the shame. Dorian's words, and Dorian's silences, haunted him. _Damn you, Dorian. Why should I have believed you?_

No answer occurred to him. He glared at the shot glass, and after a moment, seized it and knocked back the whiskey. He ordered another and lit a cigarette.

Three cigarettes later, a shadow paused beside his table. "Klaus."

It was Dorian's voice. With an odd tone, not quite confident. For once. Klaus squinted up through smoke at the riotous curls and a trim black jumpsuit with an effeminate paisley scarf at the throat.

"Don't scowl at my clothes like that, Klaus. I am what I am." Dorian smiled. "Beautiful."

Klaus felt rising irritation. It was so… so Dorian.

"I've a present for you." A rustle and brush of cloth on the table, further rustle of the Earl sitting down opposite him. Klaus refused to look anywhere but at his drink, ignoring even the cigarette burning down in a well-filled ashtray. "Please look at it," said Dorian, subdued.

Eroica was never subdued. Klaus glanced up at him, and his gaze caught on a nondescript tan figurine of a horse and rider. Not much larger than an automatic but a thousand times as valuable to some powers. The T'ang. His breath hissed out at the sheer gall of it. "Dorian…" he got out, in low-voiced, absolute fury.

While he choked on his next words, Dorian leaned forward and placed a finger over his lips. Speechless with rage, Klaus glared at him.

Blue English eyes widened a little in dismay and the Earl's hand dropped. Before Klaus could find a voice, he spoke softly: "In my absence last night, my people followed the instructions I had given them earlier." There was a hint of mischief in his sigh. "To the letter."

"I see."

Dorian flicked a finger at the horse. "Indeed, as you see. I did not wish to involve them in our… affairs, so I followed them to retrieve the T'ang myself. For you."

"Why?" Klaus's eyes drilled into Dorian's.

"Need you ask?" Golden lashes veiled the shining blue for an instant. "I told you I wouldn't steal anything from the Arts Festival."

"So you did." Klaus reached for the ashtray, stubbed out the smoldering cigarette butt, and lit a fresh one. A waiter materialized and took Dorian's order for brandy. Dorian fidgeted with his scarf until the brandy arrived.

"Is that all?" asked Klaus. In all their tempestuous meetings, he could not recall Dorian ever looking abashed.

"The chase into Manchuria, escaping from the Korean police—"

"I hope you didn't violate Soviet airspace."

"—of course not, Major." Dorian paused. "It was exciting. Very exciting."

Klaus thought about that. "So?"

"It was more beautiful than the statuette. I loved it." He waved his glass in a manner designed to slop brandy up and down the sides and spread the smell, then took an elegant swallow.

Klaus watched this performance, motionless behind his still-full shot glass. "And?"

"I would do a great deal for your sake, Klaus. I will avoid embarrassing you and your superiors. I will cooperate with NATO. But I do not believe I can ever not be… reckless… about such things." He set down the glass and ran fingertips delicately over smooth, pale-brown porcelain. "Beautiful."

"If you say so." To Klaus it was a rather blocky and inexact figurine of a horse and rider. Of importance to two major governments and a capricious art lover called Eroica. He sighed. "You love the excitement. Yes, I understand."

"I love you."

"No change, Dorian?" He stubbed out the cigarette.

"Still the same."

A shuddering memory of the previous night passed over Klaus. He did not acknowledge it in any way he could prevent—meaning that it should have been totally invisible—but Dorian's eyes focused on him, thoughtful. When had this indiscreet Englishman ever been thoughtful?

"Must I get you drunk again, Klaus?"

"What _was_ that stuff?"

Dorian smiled, eyes dancing. "I can't pronounce it properly. But I could steal a bottle and be back in thirty minutes."

Klaus sighed. "I'm sure you could. It won't be necessary." He downed his whiskey. "Thank you for returning the T'ang. You make, as ever, the grand gesture." He picked up the figure carefully in deference to its international and monetary value. "Let me return this to the Arts Hall, Eroica."

"And then?" The waiter re-materialized and presented a check. Dorian seized it before Klaus could, scribbled his name, and handed it back.

"Your Mr. James will scold you for that."

"No. He handles my _business_ affairs. But you…"

"I'll be back when I've fulfilled my duties."

"Tonight?" The blue eyes were laughing. At him.

Klaus gave the hard smile that terrorized subordinates from A to Z. Dorian merely smiled back, with equal steel.

"As soon as possible, Eroica." He strode out.

Dorian watched him leave. "What I like, I get," he whispered. "You beauty. And I think you know it."

# # #


	2. I Run Before My Horse To Market

_…I think you know it._ The Major knew very little, about subjects that interested Dorian. He could learn, of course. Dorian smiled. Given tutoring.

It should be a delightful project. But for the moment, Klaus was off at the Arts Hall. Yesterday, or the day before, he'd have spent hours crossing every  t  and dotting every  i  on the relevant and irrelevant paperwork. Today, would he merely turn the exquisite horse over to whomever it belonged with, to satisfy his duty's conscience, and come directly back with mute pleading in his beautiful eyes? Klaus was so silent, so unable to ask in words for what he clearly wanted…

No, Klaus had plenty of spine and he'd walked out to let his back show Dorian what was important in NATO. Dorian rolled his eyes and, given the least excuse, would have fluttered his wrists at anyone around, the Major for preference. Better yet, at his jolly, pragmatic and terribly hypocritical little Chief. Klaus would stay at the Arts Hall for hours, to finish the job and to show that he wasn't under Dorian's thumb.

Let him. He'd finish eventually. One hard lesson Dorian had learned from the world, and blithely expected the world to learn back from him, was patience. Infinite patience, leading to infinite possibilities… Klaus would return, mute pleading in his beautiful eyes, and Dorian had every intention of satisfying it in every possible particular.

Meanwhile, there was still his most pressing reason (after the Major's presence) for being in Seoul: something to make Mr. James happy, and Bonham, and all the other people who'd been so full of commendable initiative last night. It would take time to get them back out of Manchuria and placate the Chinese authorities, and they deserved some reward for their troubles. Dorian had a lovely coup in mind, but he'd need information. A bit of information-gathering wasn't stealing, was it? He could go discreetly and check his source and return in good time to meet Klaus.

The Major's conscience might be something of a complication in the future, it seemed. Was it worth it?

Yes.

There it was, no help for it. Dorian was accustomed to letting his whims rule him. Klaus might turn out to be more ruling a whim than even Dorian had hoped. It might be…interesting, but surely there would be some leeway in the Major's attitude. Dorian intended to see to that. Tonight was just some preliminary research, he assured himself. Nothing to bother the Major.

Besides, he was already dressed for it.

Eroica drove himself, with elan, out of Seoul and into the posh, hilly suburb that contained the private houses of wealthy Western visitors who were sometime residents of the city. Most were in residence now, for the Games; most had excellent security.

He circumvented a gate alarm with a delicate bit of electrical fiddling, strolled casually and openly up an ornamental path in the balmy midnight air, and studied the house from a prudent distance. Bonham's early report had been most specific. Eroica decided to gamble that it had been accurate as well—with Bonham, a very good gamble.

_This_ was life: using his wits and skills against the so-called normal world, doing precisely as he pleased. No one and nothing could keep out Eroica. Certainly not the fifth ground-floor window from the left on the east side of the house here. It opened to his lock override code, and he climbed long-legged into the darkened study within.

He made sure the curtains would keep light in as well as out, and switched on his torch. The Ambassador had a taste for expensive women, and the Ambassador's woman had a taste for expensive antiques. Very admirable, if only she didn't lock them up so well. Her houses elsewhere boasted treasures unseen in Europe for centuries. If the new security system here was breachable, so were the others. He hoped. Now where would a businesslike person keep her security consultant's papers?

The desk safe was easy to find, tricky to crack. Bonham usually did this sort of thing… there. It opened onto a stack of documents in back-curling script. Dorian peered at them in the torchlight. Turkish. Arabic. Ah, Italian. Dorian caught some politeness from a Cardinal, sniffed, and went on down the stack. Greek. The Ambassador's woman had no lack of learning. Korean and English, yes, here was something with the chop of the newest high-tech private security firm in Seoul. He seized it. Photography was so useful. As were translators for both Korean and technical dialects. When the document was captured on film, he riffled through the remaining papers.

Almost, he ignored the European envelope, smeared with dirt but new and clean underneath it, on the narrow second shelf. The contents were in French, and very technical. Dorian read through it idly, and did not realize until the last page that it was an internal NATO Intelligence report. Signed by Klaus's Chief.

It had no legitimate business in the Turkish Ambassador's mistress's desk safe.

Dorian worked it out in a flash. If NATO Intelligence had a leak, the Major's work, as well as his Chief's, might be compromised. Klaus might be in danger. He surely needed this report back.

It was an opportunity not to be passed up. Dorian picked a similar envelope from the first stack, left it in place of the NATO report, returned the other documents to order and began the tedious, exacting process of closing the safe up again without tripping any of its alarms.

He wondered if NATO even suspected it had a Turkish spy. Or any spy.

Either way, there was danger at the Major's back. Eroica's car swept down toward Seoul fast as a bird, open to the wind. In spite of everything, Eroica laughed. _This_ was life.

He drove directly to the Arts Hall, and set about bluffing his way to the security offices—not an easy thing in the middle of the night, even for such a well-known art lover and eccentric as the Earl of Gloria. He was prepared to break in if he had to, and it would have been a delightful technical challenge, but he decided it would be more amusing to challenge the human protectors of the Hall.

He convinced a watchman to consult the guard-captain, and the captain to call one of the nameless NATO agents the major terrorized so efficiently. Mr. D took a long look at the Earl, the unadorned black jumpsuit he wore, the cascading wind-swept curls, the paisley-wrapped package under his arm, and the request to see Major Eberbach immediately. Mr. D conducted him from the dingy guard office to a luxuriously sterile waiting room with a lock on the door. "Please wait here."

Dorian gave him five minutes. Mr. D had worked with the Major before, and would not fail to report Eroica's presence.

In four minutes, Mr. D was back. "The Major is occupied with a current crisis. He will be in contact with you later."

"Tell him," said Dorian, using a deadly soft tone that occasionally worked wonders with his tailor and butler, "that I am here on NATO business to do with his Chief, and nothing more."

Mr. D was visibly disconcerted by the difference between the bohemian appearance the Earl knew he presented, and the imperative voice. He hesitated, frowning.

"Give him that message, in those words," said Dorian, in the same voice.

Mr. D went.

This time it took only three minutes. The door jerked open, and into the dismally impersonal room stalked Iron Klaus in a towering rage. "All right, Eroica, you have my attention. What is it?"

It suddenly occurred to Dorian that his acquisition of the envelope was going to be hard to explain. No matter; this was more important for Klaus. "I found this in the Turkish Am—" The Major stared transfixed at the manila envelope now uncovered in Dorian's hands.

"Where did you get that?" He did not reach for it. The open, exasperated rage was gone, replaced by something icy and infinitely more piercing. "Eroica, if you—" He was white, eyes hard.

"It was in the Turkish Ambassador's mistress's desk safe," said Dorian carefully. "At midnight, an hour ago."

The Major might have relaxed a fraction, but not much. "And you just happened across it at a garden party."

"If you like. I believe it's been misplaced. It's your department's, so I brought it back to you."

Hard, hard eyes flicked over his face, taking in the disheveled mane of hair, the no-longer-pristine jumpsuit. There was a spark of something in the depths of those eyes, which was the only uncontrolled thing in the Major's precise, puppetlike stance. "I suppose you've seen the contents."

Dorian shrugged. How else would he have known whose they were? Not that he had understood one word in three. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he could have photographed the document for his own curiosity. Looking at Klaus's strained face, he decided it was better that he hadn't.

The Major's voice would have shattered tool steel. "Forget it. Anything about it. And put it back where it was, _exactly_. You weren't detected in the theft?"

The last was nearly an afterthought; Eroica was not detected until Eroica chose to be. Dorian was glad to see Klaus still believed that much of him. "No. Of course not." He gave Eroica's smile. Klaus didn't react.

"Your gang…"

"My _staff_," said Dorian, "are still in Manchuria. I was alone." _After you left me alone._

"Good." The Major went back to the Iron Klaus expression, which Dorian at least understood. "If you're telling the truth."

"Yes."

The Major stared at him with dispassionate evaluation. Dorian wondered if truth meant the same thing to each of them.

"Put it back. Don't get caught. If you are caught, steal something else, something flashy." He sagged infinitesimally. "You probably already have. I should send someone with you to observe. Shall I?"

"I'd work better alone," said Dorian, nettled.

"Just make it good, Eroica. Now get out. I'll deal with you later." The inhumanly stiff puppet of a man stalked out, and Dorian was alone.

What had _that_ been about? An envelope? A theft? Remembering the cold eyes, Dorian wasn't sure he wanted to know. He abruptly felt sympathy for the terrified alphabet of Iron Klaus's underlings. Alaska would be a relief, after those eyes.

Klaus would return, to "deal with you later." Dorian clung to that thought, as he drove through Seoul, to the dark house with the unlockable study window. All remained quiet as he replaced the envelope and reshuffled it all into its original order. He must remember to compliment Bonham on his information.

If Klaus was angry enough to break away from Dorian… because of a NATO secret… He'd just have to start over. Dorian considered how he might go about it, then reconsidered and chuckled aloud into Seoul's predawn streets. He wouldn't have to start over. There could be no going back for Klaus or himself.

_And I think you know it, you beauty. I'll make sure you do._ After the night's excitement the Palace of Seoul was clean and cool. Dorian's penthouse suite breathed fresh warm scent of roses and jasmine; the second shift of Bonham's staff must be at work, called to fill in for the absentees. Dorian admitted that the comforts of wealth and title could be welcome, in a restful way. Now and then.

He sent a car to wait for Major Eberbach at the Arts Hall, left orders to be notified the moment it returned—with or without the Major—and retired for what was left of the night.

The message came, with coffee and breakfast, at noon. Moments later the Major entered the suite, storming. Dorian took a look at him and smiled. Klaus was in an overwhelming rage—quite normal. The servants, trained well, fled. Dorian poured coffee into bone china and offered it to Klaus. "Yes," he said.

"You are insufferable, dishonest, childish, verrückt, entehrend, einfältig…" He began on an agglutinated term of contempt that Dorian thought included some references to a camel, and sputtered to a halt.

"I agree completely. You, too. Breakfast?"

"No!" He put the coffee cup back on the breakfast tray, untouched. "You have no idea what you were in the middle of, and I can only pray God you haven't ruined everything my department has done for the past month." He favored Dorian with a searing glare. "Everything! Considering that you undid Arts Hall security while you were—you say—asleep, no wonder your efforts awake have threatened everything I could do!"

Dorian let his eyes open wide, which was only partly artistic. Klaus scathing was no novelty, but Klaus in this mood suggested apocalypse. It would be a world well lost, Dorian thought dreamily, waiting for Klaus to run down, nodding agreeably at his invective. Klaus was here, and that told its own story. They would finish it presently.

The Major's storm gathered momentum as he advanced on Dorian's position step by emphatic step across the carpet. "…untrustworthy so-called informant disrupting my missions, confusing my subordinates, who have enough to do without your interference…" The one word Klaus had not hurled at him was "pervert." Dorian wondered if Klaus was even aware of the change of habit.

Dorian stood to meet him eye to eye, which caused a momentary falter in the flow of words. As the Major drew breath to continue, Dorian stepped to him, put both arms around him, and kissed him.

The Major froze for an instant. Dorian made sure the embrace could not be mistaken for anything chaste or merely friendly. The Major tensed. He was quite capable, Dorian knew, of disabling any amorous approach in a few violent seconds. Dorian continued the kiss. It was a gamble, a good gamble.

Klaus shivered and joined Dorian's mouth with his own, all vehemence transformed into passion.

It was what Dorian had hoped and hungered for all this time. As he fitted their bodies more firmly together, silk dressing gown against tailored serge, Klaus's arms tightened hard around him; but he was caught more certainly by the greedy, eager tongue pushing against his, the blind, shivering response of the body pressed against him.

It was not a surrender, not the dazed cooperation of the day before, but a feverish attack. Dorian loved it, accepting it all until the first frenzy could wear down. He wanted to get Klaus out of that uniform.

When Klaus finally let go of the kiss, he pulled back only far enough to open his eyes. He looked lost, eyes dark and face flushed; Dorian could imagine that unfamiliar pinkness over all of his skin, and freed a hand to begin undressing him.

The eyes closed and Klaus's arms let Dorian go. His hands moved to help Dorian's, shaking but never fumbling.

Dorian loosed an embroidered silk belt and let his own robe drift to the floor before he put both hands on Klaus's bare chest, caressing. It felt good, better than he'd ever thought it would. Better than yesterday. Better than anything. No, better than anything except getting Klaus onto a real bed and into a horizontal clinch with lots of embellishments and a thousand kisses. He wrapped himself, naked, around a naked Klaus for the first of them, and wasn't surprised at the silent avalanche of response. When he was free to move again, he unwrapped one—only one—of Klaus's arms to clasp him by the hand and lead him into the bedroom.

Despite his decorative intentions, the lovemaking was fast and furious. There was no time for a thousand kisses as they slithered and grappled together on the bed, Dorian rubbing body against body in sensual heat that rose as quickly in him as in Klaus's desperate, ever-silent struggle between control and abandon. Abandon won.

He wasn't sure Klaus even knew where he was or with whom, until the weight on him shifted and Klaus's eyes suddenly stared into his for a fierce moment. Accusation? Hatred? Dorian wasn't focusing on niceties just then, and sensed only a piercing moment of Klaus's attention: thoroughly self-aware attention.

It was more answer than he had expected. He moved his head, caught the other mouth with a brief kiss, and returned to the all-absorbing drive of groin against groin. Klaus's eyes glazed over again, his body's call more imperative than anything else for the moments before climax. Thought left behind, Dorian clung to him from beneath, matching and directing his thrusts. He remembered not to use words, though he could not stop himself from crying out as body and mind were released from the building pressure at last.

They were still welded stickily together when, moments later, Klaus opened his eyes again. Under the brilliant, wide-pupilled glare, Dorian raised a hand and stroked through the silky dark hair, and saw the eyes go vague, almost soft, at the renewed caress. Finally they closed, and Klaus relaxed at last into sleep, head pillowed neatly and heavily on Dorian's chest.

Dorian lay content under the strong, beautiful body of his lover, but the relaxation was very brief. Before Klaus even became too heavy for comfort, he was awake, pushing himself off Dorian with a grimace of fastidiousness.

He retreated only far enough to lie beside Dorian instead of on him. Dorian stretched, brushed curls out of his eyes, and turned to lie watching as Klaus stared at the ceiling for some time, silent but not forbidding. Klaus needed time, Dorian thought, to return to himself. The wild man struggling with passion in his arms had been immensely arousing, real and necessary, but Klaus could not—would not—be that at any other time. Not even now, while they were alone and perhaps only waiting for desire to rise again.

Klaus sat up and looked at the nightstand. Dorian passed him the cigarettes he'd asked to have put here: Klaus's brand, not the Earl's. It was no use to hide something like this from servants, so one might as well make use of them.

Klaus nodded, eyebrows rising momentarily, and accepted the pack. He chain-smoked silently while Dorian watched him in a pleasant haze. Finally he looked around, stubbed out the latest smoked-down butt, and sighed. "I suppose it never occurred to you that NATO knows exactly where its information is at any time, Eroica?"

Klaus was back, all right. Dorian shrugged. "It was an unusual placement, you must admit. Mistakes can happen."

"Yeah." The syllable was not conciliatory.

"I didn't want them happening to you, if I could help it."

"So you brought the packet back to me."

"Well, naturally." Dorian was mystified at the other's irritation.

"It didn't occur to you to ask the Chief where it belonged, did it?"

"No," said Dorian, still mystified. "It had—"

"Don't tell me anything about it!"

"Why n—" Light struck. "Oh." Dorian thought for a moment, then reached for one of Klaus's cigarettes. The overstrong rush of nicotine suddenly suited his mood.

"Just forget everything you read."

"That won't be difficult."

"Good."

Klaus was watching him, now, as he held the uncomfortably harsh cigarette and let it burn down, slowly. Pale smoke twisted upward in the window's blind-softened noon sunlight. Finally Klaus said, "Dorian, you don't know how dangerous this all is. Your escapades are child's play in comparison, not even worth stopping."

"Interpol doesn't think so."

"Interpol is children's play too."

Dorian flashed a smile. "I could easily agree with you there."

"You won't give up being Eroica, will you? Not for anything?"

"Eroica is what I am, you know. I can choose what I do, not what I am."

"I suppose not." Klaus's eyes on the cigarette reminded Dorian to hold it over the ashtray nestled in the bedding. "You're too honest."

Dorian put the cigarette down completely; it went out. "What?" He moved the ashtray back to the nightstand to give himself time. "There's no need to be insulting."

"I could think of some good reasons," Klaus's grin took in the bedroom and Eroica, and was not at all reassuring.

"You've never thought I was… trustworthy. The opposite, to hear you."

"I didn't say trustworthy. You make up your own truth, and you don't believe anyone will step outside it. What if someone doesn't play your game? What if someone betrays you?"

"Is it likely?"

"You never considered, did you, that_ I_ might have given the Turks that packet on my own, for instance?"

Dorian stared at him, flipping mentally through the ugly set of speculations Klaus had given him, then said calmly, "No, I didn't. I don't."

"You should have thought of it. You wondered, didn't you, if someone else might have done the same thing?"

"Someone else, yes. Your Chief, even. Not you."

"Not him. And why not me?"

"Because I know you. Very well."

Klaus colored faintly. "Don't remind me."

"I will when I want—but I knew you that well a year ago."

"How do you mean, then?"

"I've seen you at work: duty and nothing else. Ever." Dorian added, "You worked with _me_ when you had to."

"Only when I had to. What has that to do with the case?"

"You didn't like me then. You believed I'd rape you at the first opportunity."

Klaus was pinker than before. "Not after… not for long."

"No, it took a very long time. Longer than anything else I've ever done."

"Oh?" Klaus abruptly fell silent.

"I had to catch you off duty." Klaus losing his words was a good sign. Dorian moved closer and murmured, "It should take a very long time. Very, very long…" and he finished with the first of a thousand kisses. Klaus had a lot to learn.

# # #


	3. Earth Gape Open Wide and Eat Him Quick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The complications following the theft and return of a horse continue.

Klaus considered the act of love.

It was extremely hard to ignore.

Eyes squeezed shut, body flat and tense, ears (as far as possible) closed, hands rigidly laid open on the bed, he could not avoid dwelling on what Dorian must be doing to produce the sensations coursing through him now.

He could not bear it. He could not stop it. He had never stopped Eroica from doing whatever he pleased; this was no exception.

It was taking a long time.

Slow stroking reached toward his groin… something warm and dry… something warm and wet… and intermittent. The slowly-unfolding variety of sensation was a surprise, as was the delicacy of touch. It didn't quite tickle, didn't quite irritate, but definitely aroused.

He was aroused. He couldn't have described any of it to himself if he'd tried, other than to remember wordlessly the heat and hardness of being ready for sex.

It must have been quite a few minutes now since the sensitive teasing had begun. It was growing more definite; Klaus could feel slick wetness sliding over and around… down… he couldn't move to avoid it; there was a hand resting lightly on one hip. It pinned him motionless to the bed.

He took a long, slowly measured breath.

Dorian had brought him here, and he'd stayed. The soft wetness slid about, playfully. It was irresistible, unbearable. He sighed once and opened his eyes.

The golden head bent over his groin, over his absurd crimson erection, lapping at it with an expression of concentration… and pleasure…

He slammed his eyes shut again, and felt—with vivid precision—the slow, lascivious descent of the warm mouth around aching nerve endings. Closing his eyes didn't stop anything from happening. Klaus opened them again, cautiously, and was shocked anew.

Being so shocked—unable to understand anything—was almost enjoyable.

At that unwelcome realization, Klaus let his head fall back flat and watched the ceiling with unfocused eyes. Dorian did something which intensified the urgency in his lower body. He didn't care to think what it might be.

It was not impossible. Not at all.

He looked down again, and saw the yellow hair lift again. It was a hand touching him now, warm and firm on him. It felt like before…

He must have moved, for Dorian glanced at his face and the pleased expression faded to a question. It wasn't a question Klaus could answer, or even ask. His body renewed its demands for attention. Dorian could answer that, and did.

Desperate, Klaus lifted a hand to touch the golden hair, just within reach. He didn't know if it was a plea to stop or continue, or if it was a plea at all. It was the only voluntary sign he could make.

Dorian looked up again, and this time he slithered up to lie next to Klaus, a hand still working, compelling sensations Klaus could not escape. There was a sound, a hissing in his ear. A whisper.

It meant nothing to him. A moment later, the building storm in his groin took control of his world. Right hand flat on the bed, left tangled in Dorian's warm hair, Klaus felt sensation crest and spend itself, all at Dorian's direction.

He supposed it wasn't really impossible. It hadn't been impossible before.

He stared at the ceiling until he had convinced himself he was calm and in complete control of his own body. Dorian remained curled warmly around him, but even the slow, sliding disengagement from a now overworked bit of flesh stirred no uncontrollable new furies. It was, he hoped, over.

Dorian moved against him, flung an arm across his chest and buried his face in Klaus's neck. His wordless murmur sounded sleepy, undemanding… Klaus felt it might be safe to sleep now, though Dorian was not quite still, nuzzling under his ear. It wasn't uncomfortable. It should be no distraction to a man who was short a night's sleep and who believed no further danger could threaten him. Klaus let himself sink into a drowse.

Dorian moved again. Sharing a bed was overrated, Klaus thought. He had always found it so. He had no intention of being distracted from his goal, and let the drowse deepen.

Dorian was licking his neck.

It could not be ignored. Klaus drew breath for an indignant question, and found himself being kissed before the second syllable escaped him.

It was warm, lazy, a seduction of senses that should be dormant and exhausted. It tasted of Dorian and it was already going from lazy to lascivious. Klaus moved, intending to separate himself from the encroaching body and mouth. Instead, his left arm seemed to draw Dorian closer.

Dorian murmured again—nothing in particular—and went back to licking his neck. Aside from being totally ridiculous, it felt rather pleasant. Klaus wondered if it would be possible to sleep under these conditions. Besieged, he tried yet again to drowse.

There was a noise. A sound he should respond to.

Klaus sat up, abruptly, spilling Dorian to the silk-sheeted mattress, and heard again the knock at the door.

Dorian's indignant gasp became a swift series of expressions: frustration, dismay, annoyance, determination, disappointment.

"It'll be important," he said, almost calmly. "I'd better answer that." He was off the bed a moment later, belting on a flowered robe that was probably in better taste than it looked. Klaus hoped.

"Are you sure?"

"It will be _very_ important," said Dorian. "My staff has its orders."

Klaus thought about that as Dorian disappeared into the outer room. He didn't really like the conclusions it led to; he didn't like the whole situation. How did Eroica get him into this?

The bedroom's furnishings included a rosewood wardrobe with a second robe hung out for use. Mercifully, it was a plain, sedate dark blue, and the Major appropriated it without hesitation. It was, he observed, pristinely new. The cigarettes on the end table were not Dorian's. He sat, moodily, on a Danish-designed state-of-the-art loveseat and smoked until Dorian might return, thinking.

The act of love… could not be described or predicted. It was not logical. He could not, in conscience, approve of it.

If Dorian had his way, it would happen again.

The door clicked and Dorian strode back into the room, alone but for the embroidered cherry blossoms frothing on black silk. He smiled at Klaus, took a cigarette of his own from a box, lit it and sat on the other half of the loveseat. Klaus did not bother to edge away. "Well?" He jerked his head at the door.

"It was important. I'm afraid I shall have to leave in a few moments, on urgent business. Please stay here as long as you want to."

Klaus didn't know what he wanted of Eroica. "Your servants know I'm here."

Dorian shrugged. "They could hardly avoid knowing it."

It occurred to the Major that his uniform was lying somewhere in the outer room. "Is there any hope they can be discreet?"

Dorian tsk'd. "They're my staff… part of Eroica's team. You can bet they're _bloody_ discreet."

"I see. So you trust them?"

"Yes. That's how it is." A smile lit the fair English face as Eroica stubbed out his cigarette. "They'll do as I say. Don't worry, Quinquin." He rose, ignoring Klaus's answering mutter. "I suppose I'd best look respectable."

Klaus lit another cigarette and managed not to look surprised. "How? And why?" Dorian, respectable?

"But not too respectable…" murmured the amused voice in answer, as Dorian threw open mirrored rosewood doors and surveyed the wardrobe's colorful contents. "The carnation, I think. With the navy." He pulled out neatly arrayed, revoltingly gaudy garments.

Klaus, dazed with unfamiliar languor, could not make himself get up from the seat or even comment on Dorian's unexpected efficiency in assembling a costume. He could only watch, not really thinking. The wardrobe mirrors reflected the tumbled bed and the smoothly pressed clothing in momentary silence, until Dorian emerged from the steaming bathroom and began to dress.

"What is it you have to do?" asked Klaus, not curious but vaguely aware that he should be. Dorian could be up to something. Dorian was always up to something. Did it matter what?

"Have to see a man about… oh, this and that." The tone was a bit too airy.

"It's that team of yours. The ones that were away. They're in trouble," said Klaus, realizing.

"They're in Customs and Immigration. Under quarantine," said Dorian. "I'll have to fetch them out."

"Won't that be difficult?" inquired Klaus. He looked up from the process of lighting another cigarette and winced at the sight of Dorian attired in a modishly-cut suit which barely constrained a blinding pink shirt, accented by an equally pink carnation. He closed his eyes.

"Just expensive," said Dorian, leafing rather idly through a massive stack of paper won, and another of dollars.

"Oh? Oh." Oh. Klaus was sure he'd be happier not knowing too much about it, but a stray thought snagged his attention. "I thought there was a limit to the cash you could carry out of England."

"I hope that's not a personal question."

"It wasn't, but now that you mention it…" It would be Klaus's business if the fool got himself arrested, and possibly NATO business as well. Klaus exhaled smoke and cleared his throat.

"I do have sources of income outside Britain, you know."

Klaus gave a noncommittal grunt. He knew all too well.

"It's some banking transaction that gets it here, or wherever." Dorian gave a too-casual wave. "Mr. James arranges it." Then he grinned. "Frequently under protest."

"Oh. Where is James?" inquired the Major, idly.

"I gave him permission to go play at the Tokyo Stock Exchange. He'll probably come back with a few billion yen and some hot stock options. You know James."

"Not really." The Major smoked, and watched Dorian brush his hair. "I'm not surprised the little dishrag isn't part of your thieving gang."

Dorian raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. "On occasion he is," he said mildly. "He's very loyal. He's also a financial wizard: keeps the accounts in line, makes it all add up. If he were working for himself, he'd be richer than I am."

"How do you know he isn't?" asked the Major.

"I know James," said the Earl. "I wouldn't care if he were, but I know he isn't. Think about Mr. James." He shrugged.

Klaus didn't even bother to nod. Dorian, colorful and serene, smiled at him and bent to kiss him good-bye, casually but with meaning. Klaus permitted it without conscious decision, surrounded by the rose-scented limbo of Dorian's bedroom. "Stay here and get some sleep, love," Dorian urged. "You do look tired."

Klaus managed a glare. Before he could speak, Dorian extended a finger to touch his mouth and smiled again when Klaus could not summon an outburst of rage. "Tais-toi, Quinquin. I'll be back before you know it."

"Quinquin? Is that some despicable French insult?"

Dorian withdrew his finger. "Not quite."

"I can't stay either. I have duties to go back to this afternoon."

"Oh?"

"I'll be at the Arts Hall," said the Major neutrally. "While I'm on duty."

# ##

When he was able to move, Klaus dressed in the seemingly-deserted suite. He found his clothes creaseless and neatly hung on a clothesrack (which hadn't been in the sitting room earlier), with a tray of coffee and rolls and an excellent omelet waiting for him, steaming fresh, along with more cigarettes. His brand.

Klaus wondered what he was doing here, and then remembered that his last food had been a cup of cold, gluey coffee at dawn. He ate the meal and left for his own hotel room, two floors down. It was not a penthouse suite, but luxurious enough; he was no more dependent on his NATO salary or living allowance than Dorian was. Perhaps less so. Eroica, on the occasions NATO hired him, was a very expensive specialist. The rest of the time he was merely an expensive nuisance.

Klaus had to use too much of his sleep-deprived consciousness to remain aware of his surroundings on the walk through the Palace of Seoul's thickly-carpeted halls, so that his remaining thoughts, uncontrolled, speculated on what Eroica's latest coup, the seduction of a previously-trustworthy Intelligence officer, would cost NATO. He suspected that it would prove no less expensive than Eroica's usual capers.

Why, Klaus wondered, had he allowed it? It wasn't as if he liked the man. A memory twitched… the act of love… He hastily slammed a door on it. _That_ couldn't have anything to do with the case. Nothing whatever. The episode was unaccountable. It made no sense, had no purpose, filled no need. He couldn't waste time thinking about it. He had a job to do.

His hotel room, its bed unused for the past two days, invited him to sleep, but the tiny red light on the telephone signalled a message awaiting him. He couldn't rest yet. Klaus sighed, sat down in weary exhaustion in the Palace of Seoul's Danish-designed chair and punched for a replay, grateful for state-of-the-art electronics. He didn't think he could bear a hotel operator at this hour. Was it still morning? He glanced at the clock. Afternoon. What day was it? How long since he'd slept… not counting time spent with Eroica. Had he slept then?

If so, it hadn't done any good.

The message, from a cautious Mr. A, merely said that his attention was needed for some problem. There was no code-tag for emergency, but Mr. A's voice was worried. From A, whom Klaus trusted as far as he trusted any subordinate, that was significant.

He took a few deep, revivifying breaths, thought about another cup of coffee, lit a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, and punched for Mr. A's line at the Arts Hall.

"Arts Hall Security." The crisp greeting annoyed Klaus, but at this point anything at all would annoy him; he ignored it.

"Major Eberbach," said Klaus, unnecessarily, but routine was routine. "Checking in for progress reports."

"Yes, sir." A's relief was obvious. "I've had a message that your last delivery failed to connect with the intended recipient. Sorry, sir."

Failed? Klaus jogged his brain into gear. The… Turkish courier. There had been no doubt of the courier's recognition code. There was something else…

The situation did require immediate attention. How could the exchange in the Tsetse street bar have gone wrong? The Turk had left before Eroica showed up.

"I've received new information just recently," added A. "We'll have to follow it up."

Gerechter Gott. "I'll have to see you about it," said Klaus. "Will an hour from now be soon enough?"

Mr. A's tone went totally neutral. "Yes, sir. I'll expect you then."

"Do so. Eberbach off." What A meant, was that the matter might… he was beyond second-guessing his subordinate; if the matter were so urgent, the agent would have insisted. Klaus all but fell onto the bed for a carefully rationed nap.

# # #

Mr. A in person was more informative and less reassuring. "Ambassador Ulkut has become perturbed, sir. He has called several times wishing to speak to the courier in charge of the delivery."

Ulkut, until now, had been Mr. A's problem; the Major's job was moving a packet from point A to point B. If point B had suddenly shifted ground, the Major would have to shift with it or know the reason why. He was responsible for the transfer. "Will he come to a secure area for a personal meeting?" demanded Klaus.

"He will refuse," said Mr. A. "Then he'll change his mind. Then he'll change his mind again, and after that he'll arrive half an hour late. Do you want to use the interview room on this floor?" The Arts Hall had not been an idle choice of venue; anyone in Seoul could visit it without exciting comment.

"You've talked to him." Mr. A nodded, sighing. "What does he say is the problem, what does he think is the problem, and what do you think is the problem?"

Mr. A grinned briefly. "His problem is that he didn't receive the packet. He thinks it's because we're double-crossing him. I think he's a paranoid idiot. Sir."

The Ambassador _had_ received… no, his mistress had… if he could believe Eroica. Could he? What evidence did he have? The Major wished he'd had more sleep. "Ulkut may be an idiot, but do you trust him? To stay bought, as they say? A Turkish man with the right password did take the packet."

"Up until this delivery," said Mr. A carefully, "he's been quite straightforward. You might call him a one-track mind."

Klaus laughed in a bark. "You don't think he's smart enough to double-cross NATO."

"Not and get away with it, sir."

"All right. What about the courier? And are you aware that the Ambassador has a mistress?"

"Yes, sir," said A, straight-faced. "Katya Delannes. French-born of Italian ancestry." He coughed. "She's well-known in some circles as, er, companion of high-ranking officials. She's been with the Ambassador for two years or so. She's 30 years old, looks younger and," he coughed again, "apt for the role."

"Meaning?" snapped the Major.

"Gorgeous, sir. There's a photo of her, if you want to see."

"Not unless it's necessary."

"Eh, no, sir."

"And?"

"Sir?"

"You coughed twice. What did you mean the first time?"

"Oh, yes. She's supposed to be the illegitimate daughter of a prominent Roman cleric. Hearsay, of course…"

"Skip the nonsense. Is she in the Ambassador's confidence?"

"She's his mistress," said A patiently.

"Does she have access to his papers? Or his couriers?"

"It's possible."

"I'll have to talk with this one-track idiot. Will he believe his courier or me?"

"I can't say, sir."

# # #

"I must say, without wishing to cast aspersions upon your character, that I do not believe you understand all the factors," said Ilhan Ulkut in his overprecise English. The Turkish Ambassador to Korea stood slightly taller than Klaus and took pains to sit taller than him as well. They were sitting now, secure in a sterile and electronic-free chamber with a couple of well-padded chairs and a pot of strong, honey-syrupy Turkish coffee. Klaus drank it gladly, syrup or no, and didn't dare sit back in his chair.

He set down his too-small coffee cup. "I can only repeat that I personally put the packet we speak of into your courier's hands." The Major wondered if he should bother to keep his temper. Mr. A had been right; the man was an idiot. "What other factors should I take into account?"

"I am sure you repose utmost confidence in my underlings, as I do in yours," said Ulkut. "However, the continuing absence of this one item puzzles me greatly."

"And me," said Klaus, pouring himself another tiny cupful of the muddy coffee after only the briefest glance of inquiry at the Ambassador. "Even the most trustworthy underling may find himself detained, or robbed, through no fault of his own. Did your messenger return safely to you?"

The Ambassador's eyes moved uncertainly, then he pushed his cup to the Major's side of the intervening table. "I fear that you may be right, for he has not returned. I am concerned indeed, if you cannot shed light on this mystery."

No wonder the Ambassador was uneasy—if he was being truthful. The Major filled the cup for him and watched him gulp his coffee. Yes, the Ambassador was stewing in a very blockheaded, diplomatic panic. He might not trust the Major, or NATO, but he didn't know what to do about it. He was, probably, sincere. That made it the Major's move. And the only move Klaus could think of…

"I share your concern," he said. All the diplomatic politeness was making his sinuses hurt. "I shall do everything in my power to resolve the problem, of course. Have you any…" _suspicions_ "…information about the man which might help us to trace his movements?" _Are you even bright enough to suspect your mistress, you inane piece of pomposity?_

"I can have his dossier sent to you," said the Ambassador, with no more hesitation than his English required. Was he serious? Or too clever?

"That will be very useful," agreed the Major. "Perhaps you will be good enough to ask your office to inquire of his immediate associates, whether his whereabouts are known to them. It would be less…" Coffee could take one only so far. Disgustingly sweet coffee took one only a little further. Klaus restrained himself from shouting and found the good, equivocating word. "…difficult, less confusing, if he is found in that way."

The Ambassador, looking concerned, nodded agreement.

If a blockhead offered his courier's file—even, as would no doubt be the case, an abbreviated, open-to-the-public file—without even thinking about it, then he had nothing to hide. If he wasn't a blockhead, then the courier was meant to be the dupe, and the file provided would incriminate him. If they were lucky, it would be too obvious.

Klaus himself had no difficulty believing his first evaluation, which did not comfort him. Ulkut very likely didn't know the first thing about his mistress's desk safe, or his mistress's plans. The courier was Delannes' creature, of course. Klaus was vaguely curious as to whether the Embassy's open file on a sub-assistant junior secretary would mention anything that suggested the connection.

In either case, recovering the document was the obvious, only course of action. Klaus tried not to wince visibly as his heart sank. He kept his voice level:

"I feel sure my office can find…" It wouldn't do to sound too certain; Ulkut already blamed NATO for his problems. "…some evidence of the reason for his disappearance."

Never mind Ulkut. NATO needed the packet back. The Chief had been most specific: It was to go to Ulkut, whose faction had a suitable use for the information—whatever it was, which was none of Klaus's business, and none of Eroica's either—and it was to be kept from any other faction's representative. Under the circumstances, the Major suspected Katya Delannes of the worst, and he could hardly trust the Ambassador. There was only one thing to be done.

Unfortunately, it required Eroica.

# # #

Rigid with lack of sleep and sheer annoyance, the Major stalked his way back to the Palace of Seoul penthouse. No one stopped him as he stalked into the sitting room which smelled so strongly of roses. There were vases of them in the corners of the room; there hadn't been, earlier.

This time there were bodies on every chair and sofa in the large room. Half a dozen men, whose patent exhaustion could not disguise their universal good looks, sprawled over the exquisite furniture. This, then, was Eroica's active team. Klaus took some satisfaction in observing that they looked at least as worn out as he felt.

Eroica himself was not immediately to be seen, but a well-remembered drawl floated from a side door, soon followed by the swirling yellow curls and Eroica himself, fresh as ever in his carnation shirtsleeves. "Peters, have you heard from…"

Klaus stood, straight and still, in the middle of the room. "Eroica."

Dorian stopped dead for an instant, then resumed graceful motion. "Major, how nice to see you again so soon. You honor my abode."

"A moment with you. Now." Klaus was uncomfortably aware of curious eyes in the tired faces all around him.

Eroica's smile grew from welcoming to eager. "Right in here." He stepped toward the bedroom. "Oh, Peters, take care of Bonham's people."

Half a dozen highly interested faces were, mercifully, closed out by the bedroom door. Eroica turned and waited.

Klaus stayed just inside the door, carefully not leaning against its tempting support. Dorian, with total self-possession, sat down on the bed and leaned back on one arm. "Well?"

"An operation has developed in which you can be useful."

"Oh, yes?" Dorian's tone invited him.

Klaus tried to ignore it. "An operation in your professional capacity."

Dorian grinned and sat up from the seductive pose. "What a disappointment."

"_Dorian_." Klaus was too tired to refute the impudence with the scorn it deserved. "Just listen for a moment. You've done this once before, so I'm sure you're able to handle it."

"Repeat myself? How dull."

"The packet you stole from the mistress of the Turkish Ambassador. Did you return it?"

"Of course."

"Can you," said the Major carefully, "retrieve it for me again?"

Only an instant of surprise marred Eroica's composure. To his credit, he did not comment, question, or show so much as a flicker of recrimination. "Yes." He added, "If it is still there."

"Now?"

"Any time. Now."

"Will you?"

Dorian started to nod, then paused, a light of calculation in his eyes. "For the usual NATO compensation? Can you authorize it?"

An expensive thief. And a professional, in all senses and with unique advantages. As a thief. Klaus stood at parade rest and felt himself lose his temper. "I can," he said in a tired parody of his Iron Klaus shout, "authorize anything I deem necessary for this verdammter operation. Is that clear?"

"But will you?" insisted Dorian gently. "My team, as you have seen, are exhausted, and a job at just this moment will require extra effort from them."

"Not them. Just you."

A corner of Eroica's mouth curled up but he made no further impertinence. Klaus let it go.

"Professionally," said Eroica, "I am head of a team. Do you want to hire us?"

"This is extortion."

"Just good business," said the lazy voice. "The team does research, preliminary work, backup distractions, all that, even when you don't see them at the site. They're essential." He rearranged a curl. "Deal? The one-job fee, plus expenses—that's all."

"I can authorize your fee. Expenses will be allowed through NATO, as usual. Satisfied?"

The thief smiled, with a hint of twinkle. "I think that will do. No extra conditions this time, Major. Deutschmarks are acceptable."

"Noted." Klaus realized that his best efforts toward fury were producing only a damp sort of growl. "I shall accompany you, to take immediate custody of the packet."

"I didn't expect anything else." Eroica got up from the bed and stood backlit by the warm glow of the setting sun, reminding Klaus of the last time—two days ago? Only two?—he'd seen the sun set from this window. "I'm ready now, but do you want my professional opinion on the best timing?"

Klaus stayed with his back to the closed door. "Yes." Eroica, damn him, was an expert.

"You're in no better shape than my people, and I'm sure you'll want to be awake. Sit down a moment." He went on without waiting for Klaus to refuse. "The job would go better in full darkness. Midnight is best. Would you like to wait here?"

"No." He knew all those curious, suspicious eyes were waiting for him to come back out of the bedroom door. He had to get out of here as soon as possible. "I'll be in my hotel room. 803."

"I'll wake you personally," promised the Earl.

The Major could think of no suitable retort for Eroica's tone, so he merely growled again, executed an about-face and retreated with all his dignity into the penthouse sitting room. The underlings, at least, could be shown that Iron Klaus was still in command.

The sitting room, however, was empty, except for roses and someone's crumpled jacket draped over the top of an armchair. Klaus growled again and stalked out to find his own room and, if possible, sleep.

# # #

A telephone chime brought him out of dreamless, exhausted slumber. "It's nearly time to go, Major," said the Earl's cheerful voice, when he picked up the instrument. "I'll be at your room in a few minutes. Dress for breaking and entering."

The Major said something unprintable in German and returned the receiver, none too gently, to its cradle. Not many minutes later he exited the room to wait for Dorian in the impersonal safety of the corridor.

Eroica was there already, waiting for him. The dark jumpsuit almost succeeded in being unobtrusive, but his hair spoiled the effect. The thief tossed a pair of keys in one hand. "Ready? Good. I'll drive."

"And where," asked Klaus, "will your indispensable backup team be?"

"Behind us, keeping quiet. If we don't need them, all the better."

Klaus gave a curt nod and glanced impatiently up and down the corridor.

"This way." As he'd expected, Eroica led the way toward the stairs rather than elevator, then down and down into the parking garage's anonymous concrete sublevel full of shadows and neatly ranked cars.

Klaus, who had thought he was awake, shook his head irritably when the Earl halted. It didn't change anything: two gaudy blue, open-topped cars still gleamed at him, perfectly identical and side by side.

"It would be inconvenient to be unable to drive to the Games every other day," said Eroica blandly. "Mere spectators' vehicle numbers must match the date as even- or odd, to be admitted. So one has two."

"I see." The two license plates were one digit different. The useful possibilities of the twinned car were obvious to Klaus; he said nothing more.

"This one," said Eroica, "tonight." He opened the passenger door for Klaus.

As they rode out of the garage, two more black-clad men approached the second car and unlocked it. The Major thought he recognized Bonham.

Klaus spent the drive out of Seoul in observation and thought. The second blue car did not follow them, though a third, more sedate, car did. "The black sedan is mine, too," said Eroica, at his third backward glance. "Don't be so twitchy, Major. I told you my team would be covering me."

"Gut."

"You're welcome."

They parked in a strategic shadow and Eroica led him to a pretty metal gate, and after a moment swung it open. Silently. No alarms sounded or blinked. "Enter and be welcome, visitor to this house," said the thief.

Klaus gave him a hard look in the dim wash of light from one lamp. "That's not your right."

"It's my privilege to welcome you, Major." Eroica's sidelong glance spoke intimate volumes and his lashes fluttered once, but then he turned and led the way briskly up a paved path that branched and curved through Italianate hedged gardens. It was the work of minutes to open a ground-floor window: Eroica was clearly able to make the security system here do his bidding, as he compelled so much else that was, or should have been, well guarded. Klaus held to silence as his only defense.

The room they entered was an exquisite, but businesslike, study. "Quiet now," said Eroica in an undertone, treading soundlessly toward the huge central desk. "Undoing the safe will be tricky. Keep watch, if you need something to do."

"Is the house occupied?" The Major realized that he had left this crucial detail entirely in Eroica's care, and was horrified.

"No idea."

"Eroi—!" Klaus chopped off his intense whisper before it rose too high.

Dorian smiled back at him. "You're so tense. Joke. There's a caretaker, who lives in the far wing and who is forbidden to use this room. The owner is residing at the Turkish Ambassador's establishment; she left this house earlier today. Aren't you glad I have a good research team?"

"Oh." Klaus let his eyes narrow at Eroica's half-turned head of curls, gold even in the dim torchlight. "How much of that is the truth?"

"Every word. Let's get on with the job. Quiet, please."

The Major kept quiet. Presently, the desk safe swung open under Dorian's hands, revealing a stack of papers. Dorian's breath hissed out; then he ran a thin-gloved finger down the stack, up, and down again slowly. In a flat, still voice, he said, "It's not here."

"Not… !?"

"I've seen this safe twice before. Go through the things here yourself, if you like. Don't touch the doorframe, but the inner shelves are okay."

Klaus satisfied himself that none of the papers included the manila envelope he remembered too well, and none of the documents in the safe were likely to have been the material contained in it.

"You've seen the thing," he hissed at Eroica. "Are you sure it's missing?" If he couldn't retrieve the packet… if it went on to the wrong hands…

"None of these are it. Do you want a description now?"

"No," said the Major grimly. Eroica was now his best, and perhaps last, link to the packet, or to what might have happened to it. If he had to keep Eroica available to attest to the packet's location, then Eroica's unauthorized knowledge was safest, if such a word could be applied, inside Eroica's head. "Have you any other ideas on where it might be, here? Anywhere, now?"

Eroica, kneeling beside the safe, looked up at him with wide and entirely serious eyes. "No."

"…then I've failed the mission," finished Klaus. He was quite calm. This was disaster. What was the next thing to do? "You say that Delannes was at this house today?" She'd got in ahead of him, that was all. Where was she now? Could he stop her? Who—or what—was she working for? Or with?

"Katya Delannes, yes. I see you have your own sources." Eroica sat back. "Yes, she'd have been able to take it away. Aren't you missing a possibility?"

"What?"

"I might be lying."

"What about?"

"About where I got the packet. About whether I put it back. I could have given it to someone else instead, couldn't I?"

Eroica's head was cocked to one side, watching Klaus, a contemplative smile on his wide, handsome mouth. Klaus felt the floor waver hollowly under his feet for a moment, but only for a moment.

"But you didn't," he said. "Did you?" It was not a question. Dorian and another conversation in a sunset-lit room flickered through his thoughts. Irrational certainty about only one person had led him to this imbroglio, and the irrational certainty persisted even now.

Dorian was watching him closely. "For someone so bent on total suspicion of your fellow man, you have a curious blind spot."

The Major glared at him, incapable of speech. Dorian smiled back.

"You don't want me to trust you—but I do, Major. You don't want to trust me, but… you have. Unfortunately, you're right. I saw your envelope here and returned it here, and now it's gone. What are we going to do? I see that it's very important, to you."

Klaus nodded, a jerk of his head. "To NATO. I have no reason to trust you. I must act on your information in the absence of any better."

"Do you mean I've outdistanced all those alphabetical agents of yours?"

"The responsibility is mine, not theirs. Come with me, back to the Arts Hall headquarters. Now."

"Shall I drive?" asked Dorian, holding Klaus's eyes as he rose and dusted himself off. "I have the car."

# # #


	4. Packed With Posthorse Up To Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's no longer a horse that Eroica and the Major are chasing, but they're definitely chasing something.

Dorian drove them back into Seoul, relishing the wind in his hair, the dark road ahead, and the brooding man at his side. Whatever the mix-up, it had the Major in deep thought and, miraculously, ordering him to follow until further notice. Did Klaus really think Eroica would let him go, with the job still unfinished?

Eroica very much enjoyed being ordered to park his impertinently gorgeous convertible in a reserved "Security" space, and he followed and watched with admiration as the Major cut through the layers of guards around the Arts exhibits and offices. The offices themselves were half-lit and nearly empty with only two of the Major's alphabetical subordinates at work. They did not seem surprised to see Major Eberbach walk in unannounced at this post-midnight hour. Mr. D, in fact, looked up with an expression bordering on relief. "Sir! Mr. A left this for you." He proffered a sheet of typescript scrawled with hand corrections.

Neither subordinate paid the slightest attention to the Major's distinctly unofficial breaking-and-entering costume, nor to the Major's more dashing but similarly garbed companion.

"Stay in here," said the Major, almost absently, to Eroica, as he accepted the paper from D's hand. His eyes scanned the sheet rapidly, and the dark web of tension that hovered almost visibly around him tightened further. He stared at the paper for a moment after he'd finished reading, not moving, and said, "Get me the Chief, in Bonn," with flat lack of emphasis.

That surprised the subordinates, though the only sign of it was a glimpse of startled Nordic face as Mr. F swiveled from his monitor desk to a telephone switchboard. Considering how Klaus felt about his Chief, Dorian thought, the instruction was probably a rare one.

No one told Dorian not to listen. Mr. F's Korean was extremely basic, but it served, his English was adequate, and his German sounded fluent to Dorian. The Major, ignoring everyone, stalked to a desk isolated in a far corner, switched on its light and sat there staring into space, eyes hard and face white, waiting for the Chief to come on the line, doing nothing else. He wasn't even smoking.

Dorian leaned against an unoccupied desk and gazed around this place where Klaus worked. It was efficiently arranged, undoubtedly would show itself to be severely clean if the light were good, and it was totally without esthetic value. He smiled. That was all right. It was all of a piece with the Major's personal values, which Dorian intended to change. Just a little. Just enough to let Klaus enjoy life, with Dorian's help.

F spoke one last time into his telephone and pushed another button, then hung it up. He and Mr. D traded speaking glances, and proceeded to concentrate on their work in silence. The Major had picked up his receiver, and a low mumble of Teutonic consonants came from his corner.

Dorian, purely to prevent himself from becoming bored, began to saunter around the gloomy office, angling gradually toward the pool of light in the corner. Before he had completed the first leg of his calculated path, however, Mr. F lifted his face from the monitor board. "Do you need something? Can I help you?" His accent, in English, was Nordic to match his face.

"Is there coffee around here somewhere?" asked Dorian. Every office like this had a coffee machine.

"Oh. There." F pointed toward a table at the side wall opposite the Major's corner. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." Dorian took a leisurely route to the table and poured himself a paper cup of terrible military coffee—bad coffee was the same anywhere in the world—but did not drink it. Carrying the cup, he continued to wander, still thinking about Klaus. The Major wanted him to stay close. Dorian paused at a meaningless schedule chart on one wall and smiled at it with unfeigned rapture. Klaus wanted him…

He moved on, casually, and eventually set the cup down on someone's clean desk in the last row before the clear space around the Major, and listened without compunction.

There were some references to "Frankreich," and "Turkei," and one to "KahGehBeh." The name, "Fräulein Delannes," came up with fair regularity, and then the tone changed and he heard, "Eroica."

Dorian wanted to lean closer and listen with every ounce of concentration, but he'd already established a pattern of carefully casual movements and pauses; stillness would alert the Major or perhaps Mr. F. He moved casually to the next desk over and leaned against that.

Klaus was nearly spitting, and Dorian could guess that the reference was not complimentary. The exclamation points were perfectly clear. The rest made little sense to Dorian. Klaus listened to the receiver for a moment in scowling silence, and produced another sentence or two. Animated with anger, Klaus looked perfectly lovely in the sharp light of the desk lamp.

Dorian gave up trying to understand German on such short notice. He'd heard "Bonn," and "morgen." Bonn tomorrow, or in the morning. Morning would be in about two hours. And Klaus wanted him to follow. Klaus had failed his mission, he'd said, and now he was going back to Bonn to report in person.

Dorian remembered to move, casually, as Klaus continued to snarl with agglutinative grace into the telephone. "Frankreich" reoccurred, and something about "dieser Weiber," but the rest faded behind him as Dorian took a meandering course back toward the front of the room. He had no doubt Klaus and his Chief would have many words to say to each other yet, but there was no time to waste.

The effort of maintaining a nonchalant front had never been greater. As he passed the two occupied desks, Mr. F looked up at him again, politely inquiring.

"Where's the men's room?" asked Dorian plaintively. After the coffee…

It worked. "First corridor on the right," said F, "a few doors down."

"Good." Eroica moved, casually and carefully not creating any new excitement to attract the Major's attention, out the door.

He turned right, which fortunately was the way back to the parking garage, and didn't stop until he was back in the seat of his car, on the streets of Seoul.

The Major would follow him. Dorian smiled and shook his curls in the breeze. Klaus wanted him, now, for his investigation of Katya Delannes and also… Dorian laughed aloud. That wonderful, angry, passionate bundle of wire ropes would come after him, and tell him where to find the Delannes treasures, whether he wanted to or not. Dorian had no intention of evading him. It would be delicious. Meanwhile, it would do no harm to let Peters and Bonham know where the Earl had gone and what to do in his absence. Grand passions should not be allowed to disrupt one's household more than necessary.

# # #

He walked in on—not chaos, exactly; Peters would never allow chaos—but a muted disturbance of activity, in the jasmine-and rose-scented penthouse. The butler's exasperated look was somehow familiar, even in the faint dawn light of the antechamber windows. After a moment the Earl identified it, and then the distant sound of sobbing from somewhere inside. Mr. James must be back.

Oh. This would require finesse. What on earth could he tell Mr. James?

Well, he'd think of something. "Peters, I'll be leaving Seoul within the hour, alone. Can you manage a suitcase that quickly? The rest of you should go back to England as soon as it can be arranged. You're in charge of the household. Bonham's in charge of the team. I have to talk to James now. Are there any emergencies ahead of him?"

"No, m'lord. James…" There was a muffled crash, somewhere, and renewed sobbing.

"Yes?"

"He's heard the latest household news. Couldn't be helped."

"I suppose not. James is a member of the household. Need I add that this news is not to go outside?"

"No, m'lord. It won't." Peter's rotund face tilted toward the noise. "Nor from him. Not if he knows what's good for 'im."

"As you say," said the Earl grimly, and swept into the staff's sitting room to find and calm his hysterical accountant.

James, huddled forlornly in one of the hotel's magnificently comfortable armchairs, was a sodden mess, which was a pity. Mr. James in good spirits was really rather attractive. Not that it mattered now. "James darling! Now nice to see you back!" The Earl held out both hands in greeting.

Mr. James took it as an invitation and launched himself into the Earl's arms, soaked handkerchief, Casio-mini calculator and all. Clutching the familiar little body, Dorian sank helplessly into the armchair, holding James on his lap.

"Wharu… no'… truissit?" said a tearful voice. The Casio-mini's readout flashed a dim 1298452831.52 from where it was clutched in James's left hand. "Brought you something," whispered James into his shoulder, snuggling wetly. It was, Dorian reflected, just this position that had got him into trouble with James ever so long ago, and had prevented him throwing James out a number of times since. James, though he indulged in more than his share of tiresome moments, had a distinct charm and an absolute devotion to the Earl. This was going to be difficult.

Dorian put it off. "What's that? Did you have fun in Tokyo?"

"Ohh, yeesss," moaned James, nuzzling at the black jumpsuit. "See?" He displayed the calculator. "Did it all for you."

"That's marvelous, James. What is it?"

"'S my Casio-mini," said James a little reproachfully.

On a closer look, James didn't seem any less hollow-eyed than the hapless T'ang horse team—or the Major—nor was he making any more sense. That feverish look about the eyes, in fact, was extremely like Klaus's… Before he thought of the consequences, the Earl bent down and kissed his accountant, just because it was so easy. It was very nice. He really shouldn't have, now, but it was very nice, and Mr. James was going to kick up an enormous ruckus anyway; it couldn't possibly make the situation worse.

"Ohhh," said James again. "Can't be true, can it, m'lord?"

"Whatever," said the Earl. "Tell me about the Casio-mini."

"I carried it all the way here without clearing it," said James, "just to show you." He waved it proudly. "See?"

"Yes, that's wonderful, darling, but what does it mean?" The numerals in the readout window still showed 1298452831.52. When James was excited about large numbers, it could only mean one thing. "Is that money, Mr. James?"

"Uh-huh, yen," said James. "It's all waiting for you in the Nihon Ginko. They wouldn't let me take it out in cash." He hiccuped and went on snuggling in the Earl's lap. "Even when I cried."

Dorian read the figures again. One-thousand-million yen and a lot of change. It was a nice big number. It might be useful, one way or another. He smoothed Mr. James's straggling dark curls. "In one account, James? In your name?"

"Y'rs 'n mine," murmured James, both arms around him now. "Jointly. Isn't that nice?"

"Very nice," said Dorian, trying not to be overwhelmed. James was not tall, brooding, deadly or reserved. He was, however, overwhelmingly loyal and enthusiastic about exactly two things: money and the Earl of Gloria. This was really going to be more than a little difficult.

"Isn't it worth a reward?" asked James, lifting his face.

"Awfully," said Dorian, feeling like a heel. "But something's come up."

James, who had been looking hopeful and not entirely unattractive, crumpled. "So it's true!?" He set up a howl of anguish, tears flowing onto a soaked handkerchief and Dorian's shoulder. "You've caught that… that… militaristic machine? Aah-waah—and you still want him?! Aaah-are you mad?"

"Maybe that's it," shrugged Dorian. "I've always been ruled by whims."

"Ohhh, nooo…" wailed James. Dorian did not let him go, nor was James struggling to escape his embrace. James, shocked and disappointed as hemight be, was still a useful member of the household, and currently the sole holder of a fortune in hard Japanese yen. And he knew far too much about the Major and the Earl. It was worth an effort to keep his loyalty.

"There's a little more to it just at present, though…"

"Ohhhh, noooo!"

"Do you remember the T'ang horse we were after here?"

James stopped wailing and nodded, eyes wide. "There're two private collectors who'll pay for that. We can make them bid against each other, and put the price up and up and up—"

"Not this time," sighed Dorian. "That militaristic machine caught me in the middle of stealing the horse, and so there was nothing to do but agree to his terms."

"Nooooo," shrieked James, clutching the Earl this time in terror, although other impulses could be detected as Dorian, not quite in spite of himself, clutched back.

"Yes," said Dorian. "I have to do what he says, or we'll have NATO telling Interpol everything they know about me—and you—which is more than I'd planned on coping with this year."

Mr. James sobbed in his arms, fright and excitement equally evident in his frantic cries. A great deal of the front of Dorian's jumpsuit was moist by now, and there were patchy tearstains on the chair as well. Dorian stroked James's hair again, which was the least wet part of him, and said, soothingly, "So you see, the best thing for all of us is for me to cooperate with the Major for the moment."

"Are you sure you must?" It was an unhappy, but resigned, little whimper.

Dorian kissed him again, carefully not letting it go too far. "Yes. But there's a bright side. I've made him hire the team, so NATO will be paying everyone's way home." If the Major did drag Dorian to Bonn without so much as a by-your-leave, Dorian thought, he _would_ let Mr. James bill NATO for the return airfare for a staff of sixteen and all their sundry luggage, minus one T'ang horse. _What does he see in that ancient, wonderful figurine, if not beauty?_

"Wonderful!" breathed the accountant, almost forgetting his woe. "That's as good as… can we go first class? Will you…" Dorian shook his head, trying to look regretful. "Ohhh, you won't go with us?!" And he was sobbing again. "Isn't it horrible for you, being with someone who likes metal more than art? How can you bear it? Do you have to? Ohhhh…"

"I have to," said Dorian, shifting to a more comfortable and slightly more decorous posture. "I don't have the choice." _I don't choose whom I love. Fate chooses…_

"He's not b-b-beautiful," sobbed Mr. James. "It's b-beneath you to associate yourself with him."

"No, it's not," said Dorian firmly. _I love associating myself beneath him._ "Think of him, never having any fun. He needs me. He doesn't know," whispered Dorian conspiratorially into James's waiting gaze, "what pleasure is. Don't you think he ought to find out?"

James's dark eyes opened very wide and shining tears spilled out. "He doesn't deserve it!" He leaned against Dorian's chest and wept, wetly, while the Casio-mini with its enormous readout came to rest on Dorian's knee.

_But I do._ Dorian sighed and cradled the sopping bundle of grief. Mr. James, in his way, needed love as well, but not at the moment. At the moment he had a thousand million yen, which should be a feast even for Mr. James.

"Perhaps he doesn't," said Dorian soothingly, "but I have to go with him. It's one of his missions, you know."

James sobbed and wriggled closer to the Earl, who didn't resist very much. "Will you—"

The Casio-mini joggled off Dorian's knee and crashed onto the floor.

"Ohh! My beautiful calculator!" cried James and scrambled, at last, off the Earl's lap to pick it up and examine it. Ominous tinklings sounded from inside the battered casing, and the readout would not change from 1298452831.52 for any combination of button-pushing. James's face screwed up for a deafening scream of loss.

"I'll make NATO buy you a new one," said Dorian hastily. James's scream froze into a surprised peep. "After all, it's their fault it broke," pursued the Earl.

In the moment of quiet he could hear something going on at the suite entrance, something like an irate NATO officer being put off, without success, by a well-trained butler limited to weapons of etiquette. That wouldn't stop Klaus at all, if he was after something he wanted.

Dorian smiled beneficently and ecstatically upon Mr. James as he levered himself out of the armchair. "You've done beautifully, darling, and I want you to rest now. Aren't you tired from all that hard work?"

"No," said James, gazing misty-eyed up at him. "S'fun to be at a big exchange. Makes me excited." The dark curls flopped over his face and he shook them back. " Won't you have time for—"

The door slammed open at that moment to reveal Major Eberbach, looking furious. Dorian's smile widened in welcome—he couldn't stop himself—but he stood where he was with one hand on Mr. James's shoulder. Dorian had his whims and intended indulging his passions, but he also had some loyalties to uphold.

The Major's anger was no surprise; it was the eruption of screaming from Mr. James that startled Dorian. James leapt for the tall figure in the impeccable FRG uniform, Casio-mini forgotten on the floor, hitting out with shrill intensity and no science at all.

The Major, distracted from Eroica, replied to the attack with two swift moves that left James frustrated but unharmed. Howling like a siren, the accountant renewed his blind assault and drew two more lightning motions that did not bother to attack in turn. The Major wore a slight smile and wasn't even breathing hard; Dorian thought he was probably enjoying himself.

"Sto—" began the Earl, in a moderate shriek, but he couldn't hear it over James's screaming, and just then the Major apparently decided that James wasn't going to stop, and took the initiative himself. Being able to watch Klaus in action was an unexpected delight. "Go on, go on!" yelled Dorian, into the continuous barrage of noise.

The Major waited, poised, for James's next dash, seized him neatly by the arms, clamped them to his sides, and lifted him, struggling and kicking futilely, into the air. In a moment, the screams died into an indignant gurgle of compressed, laboring lungs, while the Major wore a rather smug expression of pleased exertion. The Major, eye-to-eye with James, scowled terrifyingly. "Get. Out." He opened his hands, and James fell eight inches to the floor and sprawled onto the Casio-mini, unharmed but gasping with now-silent fury.

The Earl helped him to his feet, gathering up the broken machine as well. James whimpered, theatrically.

"Do as he says, for now," murmured Dorian. " Go have some tea, and ask Peters to bring some here, in a few minutes. Are you all right?"

Mr. James clutched his beloved, wounded Casio-mini and nodded, eyes fixed first on the Major and then, pleadingly, on the Earl. "What're you going to do now?"

"What I have to," said Dorian. He bundled James to the door, and out into the sympathetic and very curious auspices of Jones and Bonham. He made sure the door was firmly closed before turning back to the love of his life, grinning, he knew, like a maniac. "That was the most fun I've had since… yesterday, Quinquin. What shall we do now?" He moved over to a large, dry sofa and sat down, willing Klaus to follow.

Klaus moved only to face him, anger coming back to him after the pleasant interlude of activity. "I told you to stay in the security office," growled the light of Dorian's days and the beloved of his eyes.

"And I came back here to give Peters some instructions," said Dorian calmly. "I'm sure you didn't want me tying up security lines with my trivial household affairs."

"You careless idiot! Don't you know how easily you can be reached here? I got in with hardly a question asked, and those men of yours are useless against anyone who's determined."

"You mean they didn't delay _you_," interposed Dorian. "But you see, they have orders not to interfere with you. For good reason." Klaus showed no signs of sitting down, so Dorian got up and paced closer.

Klaus took a step back. Somehow, it didn't seem to be a retreat. "What have you and your gang of bunglers ever done but interfere! If you don't have the sense to follow simple instructions, how can I know where you are?" Dorian, encouraged, took another step toward him. "Sit down!" ordered the Major, pointing back at the sofa.

Dorian backed up and sat. "I must finish my mission, which means bringing you to report on certain actions you have taken and certain objects you should not have seen. Until you so report, you are not to leave my sight, for security and safety reasons. Is that clear?"

"Oh, yes," said Dorian happily. "Come and tell me all about it." He patted the sofa's rose-brocade upholstery. "I just love being secure and safe…"

Klaus's face went blank, and for a moment Dorian was afraid he'd pushed too far. The Eberbach temper was nothing to trifle with, as Dorian knew from experience. Mr. James had been let off very lightly, but then Mr. James hadn't been any kind of challenge to Klaus.

The stiff, straight figure clenched its fists at its sides and the expressionless mouth parted to say, "You are a thief; and a frivolous thief. You believe in nothing. You understand nothing but selfish pleasure. You are totally thoughtless toward everything outside your own sight. You are…"

He went on for some while. Dorian stopped listening after the second sentence and watched Klaus's face become animated, his anger more expressive, as he told Dorian what he thought of him in flowing, precise English. His body language, Dorian thought, was quite beautiful.

The Earl's serene, besotted smile came to Klaus's attention after some minutes, and the rhetoric faltered. The quick eyes scanned over Dorian's delighted face and attentive posture. Dorian let the smile widen slightly and said nothing.

"…Worst of all," continued Klaus, "your followers never even understand the wrongs of your… your…" Dorian had opened his eyes more fully. "Verdammter… Dorian! Are you listening?"

"Of course. Do go on," sighed Dorian.

"Your gang of thieves are no better than you, without even knowing… Eroica, what have you told them to do now?"

"Nothing," said Dorian, smiling dreamily up at him. "Sit down and let's talk about it."

Klaus stared at him. "All this has no importance to you, does it?"

"Oh, no, a great deal," Dorian assured him. " You hired me and my team. I assume NATO does not want a highly-trained group of thieves loose in Seoul trying to find their missing leader. My men would look for me if I disappeared with no word. It might lead to some disturbances. They are," he added thoughtfully, "all very loyal."

"And what have you told them?"

"That I'm leaving," said Dorian, leaning back into the sofa, "with you. Immediately. They are to return home. I hope that suits NATO's needs?"

Klaus said nothing for a moment, looked around the room, at the closed door, at the sofa long and wide enough to lie down on, and back at the Earl. He stood very still, neither advancing nor retreating from Dorian, who watched him with interest. "Sit down, Klaus," he said calmly. "Peters will bring us tea in a moment. I need to speak to him a bit more. You can stay here with me until it's time to leave. I won't run away. Incidentally, where are we going?"

"Bonn, as soon as possible," said the Major, not moving.

"I see. Why are you in a hurry?"

That put the hard, tense look back onto Klaus's face, but it no longer frightened Dorian. Klaus was working. "Your bolting off cost us a flight to Germany! We'll lose hours before I can commandeer another, and those hours could lose me any chance of rescuing the mission! You fool!"

"Would reservations on the next JAL flight to Europe help?" asked Dorian. That massive bank account of yen could buy a lot of airfares, and NATO would reimburse them in marks.

"Possibly," said Klaus, as if the word hurt him. Yes, he'd detest taking Dorian's help. He'd have to learn that his lover would and could help him, sometimes.

"Good, then, I'll have Peters make them for us as well as the staff," said Dorian. "Immediately. First class is tolerably comfortable." He stretched out an arm for the nearer telephone on its end-table, only to have it chime under his fingers. Whatever reply Iron Klaus had been ready to throw at him died as the Earl picked it up.

Mr. D's too-perfect English demanded the Major. Dorian lifted his eyebrows and offered the receiver to his adored antagonist. "It's for you."

Klaus took it, listened, and spat merciless German into the instrument, but when he hung it up he wore a hard smile. "The reservations will not be necessary. We are departing one hour from now, or as soon as we get to the airfield, on a Danish military flight. There is no time to spare." He advanced upon Dorian's position at last, stopping just short of the sofa. "Get up. We are leaving now."

Dorian did not move, except to pick up the telephone again and punch two numbers. "I think you can give me five minutes, surely?" _C-ch-ching_, sounded on the other end of the line. Dorian looked up at the Major. If Klaus chose to manhandle him, Klaus would receive amorous cooperation and more delay. He seemed to realize that. Good. _C-ch-ching_. Where was Peters?

"Suite 1000," came the butler's voice.

"Peters. Speak to Mr. James, please, about financing the trip home for the staff with yen. I suggest JAL and a stopover in Tokyo. Insist that he buy himself a new calculator. Keep the receipts for bookkeeping, of course. I must leave soon, unless…" Dorian cocked an speculative eye at the man glowering in front of him. "Would you like tea before we leave? Breakfast?" He was perfectly sure of the answer.

"No!"

"…Very soon. I'll ring up the London house in a day or two. Hold any operations until further notice. Tell Bonham. Can you handle the rest of the details?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Excellent. Good luck with Mr. James." Dorian rang off, still without removing his eyes from Klaus, and spread his empty hands. "I am at your disposal." He smiled.

"Get. Up." Dorian rose, gracefully. He wanted very much to touch Klaus: that aura of primed explosive was catching, and this might be their last moment of privacy for hours or days. But Klaus's mind was in the outside world already. Dorian contented himself with a level gaze into the cold green eyes at his own height, and did not venture within arm's length. "Anything you say, Quinquin."

"Come with me. Now."

"Gladly," said Dorian, and couldn't resist: "I love coming with you any time." He invested the words with immense lecherous implication, but Klaus didn't notice until he added a rude snigger.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it immediately. We are leaving, now. Mr. D will bring a car. Behave, Eroica."

"Or else what?" needled Dorian, pulling open the door to find the front sitting room occupied by Peters, a serving cart full of tea things, and a small suitcase.

Klaus, faced with the outside world in actuality, had no reply. However he did not try to pull Dorian away from the tea cart as the Earl snatched a cup from it, filled it, and drained it, all in seconds.

Dorian wrapped two scone-like objects in a napkin and turned to the Major. "Let's go." He just had time to pick up the suitcase before the Major dragged him out the door.

Klaus drove, with a bare minimum of respect for the morning traffic and none for caution. Mr. D winced periodically, but Dorian rather enjoyed the trip to the airfield, which turned out not to be the Kimpo airport, but an American military base hosting, very temporarily, an apologetic Danish flight crew and their massive and virtually empty jet.

Klaus and one of the flight crew exchanged obscure military greetings, sounding surprisingly congenial. Dorian guessed that the language was Danish, since it wasn't German. The two pilots and one whatever-it-was chuckled at some comment, and the one Klaus had addressed first looked around at Dorian. "We shall leave immediately. Please board." The Major glanced at him, too, and nodded.

Dorian climbed metal stairs into an impressively austere metal cabin, herded by Klaus's impatient steps bounding up the stairs behind him. He wondered what the Major had been saying about him, and then wondered whether the man could really travel, as he appeared to be doing, totally without luggage.

He found a place to stow his suitcase and was directed to a comprehensive seatbelt on a severely functional seat. Minutes later, the plane thundered down a runway and lifted westward into the air.

It was eight time zones to Germany, which meant at least that many hours, Dorian calculated, with no entertainment at all except Klaus, who likewise had nothing to do but sit here with him. It was a bargain.

Dorian sighed happily and leaned over toward Klaus's seat, where the Major was staring out at the horizon below. "What shall we do now, Quinquin?"

# # #


	5. To Seek the Empty, Vast and Wandering Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to Bonn

The Major looked out at a patchy sea of clouds and said nothing in reply to Dorian's words. A moment later he heard, again, "…Quinquin?" Whatever Dorian meant by that nickname—and Klaus couldn't miss the tone, even if he didn't recognize the word—it was most indiscreet and indelicate of Dorian to use it in public, or perhaps to use it at all. It was absolutely typical of him, in fact. He gave Eroica a quelling look of the sort that stopped his subordinates cold in their tracks.

"How are your men getting back?" asked the English voice, then, changing from intimate to chatty.

The Major gave him another quelling look; his orders to his subordinates were no business of Eroica's.

"Isn't the view charming?" tried the Earl. Klaus pointedly did not look around at him this time, preferring inanimate wisps of water vapor to the sight of sunlit curls and knowing eyes and a mouth which could only be called lascivious, no matter how objective the observer.

"Very," he said in a voice inspired by the temperature conditions at several thousand meters above sea level.

The Earl said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm going to eat some breakfast. Would you like a scone?" There was a suggestive rustle of motion beside Klaus, who continued to stare steadfastly out the window. "That is, I _think_ they're scones. The Palace of Seoul's chef never quite got the concept right. But they'll fill you up."

Food was the last thing Klaus worried about at the best of times, and today did not qualify as good under any criteria. "No. Go eat," he hissed, "somewhere else."

"What was that about keeping me in your sight until Bonn?" asked the drawling English voice, not moving.

"Try getting off this plane before then," suggested Klaus levelly. "The flight crew have parachutes. You don't."

"For the moment," muttered the voice, but Eroica took himself, his suggestive voice, and his Korean scones off to another seat somewhere further down the cabin, leaving Klaus to his solitude and his uncomfortable thoughts.

Bonn. Or, to be more precise, NATO Intelligence HQ for West Germany. And Klaus's Chief, who would laugh his head off at Eroica's report, and laugh again at Major Eberbach's, which deserved it. Klaus had failed his objective, and Eroica gave only a slim hope of recovering it. If the woman who'd stolen the information packet from under the Turkish Ambassador's nose could be found again, there was a chance… Failure was a bitter and unaccustomed flavor in the Major's thoughts, and failure that Eroica might rescue was peculiarly distasteful. Under the circumstances, it was excruciating.

Nevertheless, his duty was clear. Eroica held the best clues to their search, and knew far more than he should about the contents of the message packet. Eroica would have to be debriefed by this operation's director, who could, Klaus hoped, impress on the capricious English thief the importance—and danger—of his knowledge. Klaus stared out at the clouds and tried not to think about the Chief's reaction to all the ancillary intelligences Eroica would undoubtedly give him in the process.

Disgrace was the least of it. Failing the mission left him disgraced anyway, though that might be recovered, somehow, if everyone moved fast. Klaus knew how to move fast. He was doing so now.

The Chief would laugh. That was galling. The Chief had his own weaknesses, as everyone knew, but he would have no leniency for Eberbach's. Nor should he, thought Klaus. There had never before been occasion for him to hope for lenience from a superior. He wasn't sure what he hoped for at the moment. He would fulfill his duty; after that, he would see what was left of his career.

And what was he going to do about Dorian? About Dorian's lascivious suggestions and unavoidable presence and impossible desires? _Not impossible._ Oh, hell.

The view outside blazed with white as the clouds thickened beneath them. Klaus shook his head to clear tearing eyes, then was startled to find himself yawning. He'd missed another night's sleep, and there was nothing else to do until Bonn. He settled back in the uncomfortable seat and closed his eyes.

# # #

"Klaus."

The Major awoke instantly at Eroica's voice.

"We're stopping for more fuel. You have to sit up for the landing."

Klaus discovered that he was lying full-length on the cabin floor, covered by a heavy gray blanket of dubious cleanliness. Nevertheless, he felt immensely more alert than at any time he could recall in the past two days. He might be, just possibly, capable of living through the next crisis.

Refueling? Pakistan, then. "What time…?" he croaked.

"The flight crew have some coffee," said Dorian. "Come on, sit up. We're over Pakistan. I've never been there before. Isn't it exciting?"

He seemed to be sincere. Klaus refrained from snapping out an adverse opinion of Pakistan merely for having the temerity to be their refueling stop. "It won't be. You and I will stay on the aircraft." He clambered to his feet without using the hand Eroica offered, sat in the nearest seat, and fastened the crash belt. Eroica had done likewise next to him, a fact Klaus didn't bother to object to.

The sun was high in the sky. Still. "How long has it been?"

"Eight hours," said Dorian. "I had a nap, too, and then I talked to the flight crew. They're awfully impressed with you." Just then the landing gear creaked and thumped its way into position, and Klaus concentrated on the pilot's handling of the craft.

During their time on the ground Dorian made no move to free himself. Instead he leaned against Klaus and said calmly, "They'll all be outside for a while," and took Klaus's hand.

A blaze of shock, and something more, ran through him. Klaus let the shock glare out of his eyes at Dorian. "You want…" He did not move his hand away.

"I love you just like this," said Dorian, warm curls crowding Klaus's jaw. "I love sitting here with you. I loved watching you sleep." His right hand moved gently on Klaus's left one. "Did you dream?"

Klaus felt his mouth drop open for a moment, and only after another moment did he find a word. "You pervert," he whispered numbly.

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a statement of fact. Isn't it?"

"I don't really care for the term." Dorian's head pulled back enough to let him meet Klaus's eyes. "Are you sure _you_ like it?"

"It's accurate. My opinions don't matter."

Dorian blinked, infuriatingly, and nestled his head back onto Klaus's shoulder. "Oh, yes, they do."

"They won't matter to the authorities in Bonn."

"Ah. And?"

"The mission comes first."

For some reason this made Dorian raise his head again and smile very oddly. The hand on Klaus's clasped tighter. "The beauty of high-sheened steel," he said. Klaus was certain he'd heard the words correctly. "You are so… characteristic. Don't change."

"What?"

"Nothing important, Major." He squeezed the hand once more and released it. "You _almost_ frighten me at times, and that's when I love you most."

He sat up, then, shook his head at the sound of fuel pumps and distant shouts around the jet's body, and said something about decadent postmodern sculpture. He was still spouting nonsense on this topic—it seemed to Klaus that he approved of it—when the flight crew returned and the plane taxied out for another take-off.

Klaus stared unseeingly at the cloud layer as Bonn drew closer. What was he going to do?

# # #

The Chief interviewed him and Eroica together, first. Dorian behaved himself with unnatural restraint, much to Klaus's surprise. His account of burgling Katya Delannes' house covered no unnecessary circumstances, such as what he had been looking for originally or why he had chosen that evening for the exercise. Nor, Klaus noticed, did Eroica explain just how he had persuaded Korean immigration officials to re-admit his thieving team after their unauthorized exit from the country.

Klaus was content not to muddy the pellucidity of Eroica's account, directing him only to repeat his description of the house's study on the first two visits, and then on the last one, as a check on his own memory.

"One thing was missing from the top of the desk," said Eroica, again, with no hint of impatience and perfect assurance. "A framed picture."

"Of whom?" Delannes was no longer with the Turkish Ambassador, going by Mr. A's latest report. Whom she might choose to attach or re-attach herself to next was of great interest in this case.

"Not whom, Major, what." Eroica sounded patient and Klaus braced himself for irritation. "It was a sketch of a house. It looked French—"

"The sketch or the house?" inquired the Chief, mustache snuffling eagerly. Klaus suspected him of unprofessional motives toward the sketch, the house or Eroica.

"Both," said Eroica, playing with a curl. "I'd date it in the 1800's, so the house mightn't be there any longer." He added, "But this was a quick examination in poor light. It appeared to be interesting but not valuable."

"What part of France?" asked Klaus.

"I'd have to think about it. Ask me again tomorrow."

Klaus glared, and even the Chief grimaced. "Major Eberbach, don't you have an investigation to see to? The Earl of Gloria and I can find topics of mutual interest by ourselves. Perhaps I can prompt his memory."

That brought him back to cold reality. "Yes, sir." He dared not look at Eroica as he took a punctiliously correct departure. Topics of mutual interest! If that disgusting excuse for an Intelligence Chief dared to suggest even one untoward move to Eroica…

He could not think what he might do, or ought to do, or even what he wanted to do. What was worse, he couldn't predict Dorian's actions either.

The mission. He found his desk and ordered agents H through L to follow up any clues as to Delannes' whereabouts. Mr. A would arrive within the day with whatever was to be found in Seoul. B through F would remain to guard the T'ang horse and the French government's pride. Paris had had its fun in this operation already. There had been a full day of the extremities of Gallic officialdom at the start of the case, and Paris would pay for that, but not with a porcelain figurine.

The only other person in the room not fully occupied was Agent G, who looked up hopefully as the Major dismissed L. Klaus lost no time in returning a virulent glare. He did not wish to deal with G just at present. The Chief knew G far too well. Klaus sat and tried to think of something more to do that wouldn't be a waste of time. He wished Eroica's information was available for use. Where was Dorian, and what was he saying? How was he saying it?

A filled ashtray later, Klaus was summoned for his own interview. He was very nearly grateful.

It was a formal debriefing, which meant that the Chief's office was arranged so that Klaus sat in pitiless light and answered to both the Chief and to one of the specialists whose names he was not to know. Klaus was trained for it, had been through it innumerable times. It still made him nervous, a fact that would be well known to the two (was it only two?) on the other side of the light, and which he betrayed in no expression or gesture or attitude of body.

He sat back in an impression of easy confidence, wished for a cigarette, and said, "Sirs."

"Report, Major," said the Chief.

Klaus reported, in crisp detail, every professional aspect of the job in Seoul. At the end of it he allowed himself to straighten and address a point midway between the two listeners. "And, sir."

"Yes, Major?"

"I have become unprofessional with Eroica."

The Chief snickered, but it was only a warm-up. "Does that mean you've beaten him up or that he's seduced you?"

Klaus had decided, or perhaps always known, that the only way of cutting the Chief's amusement down to size was to face him with the flat facts. Unfortunately, Klaus found himself unable to enumerate the facts flatly. He smiled without mirth. "You've seen him already."

"He is in good health and spirits," said the specialist, neutrally.

"Correct, sir."

The Chief guffawed in porcine glee. "And he's very pleased with himself! It's an ill wind, Eberbach, isn't it? Enjoying… ah…?"

The Major sat at confident ease again, wished desperately for a cigarette, and said into the predictably revolting flow of sewage from what the Chief called his mind, "It is your duty to discharge me, sir."

"Don't be an ass, Eberbach."

"Yes, sir. May I remind you of regulations number—"

"You may not!" The Chief wasn't laughing quite so hard now, Klaus observed with limited satisfaction. "What would you do afterwards?"

"Retire to Eberbach."

"And?" It was a suggestive leer.

"I would prefer Eroica to stay out of NATO's operations."

The Chief leered again at that, but the specialist's eyes merely flickered out of focus for a moment. When Klaus maintained a stony silence, the Chief sobered reluctantly. "So that's it. No. You will continue to work for this Department, as will the Earl of Gloria, for as long as he can be induced to employ his talents here."

"Sir, he is not a safe operative! He's not a proper operative at all! You heard my report, and his."

"Yes I did. Fortuitous, don't you think?"

"He is in danger as long as he works with NATO! He has no idea of the dangers or the implications! And he won't be curbed, and he's not trained. I want him out."

"No. You will work with him, when he is the best man for the job. As you have in the past."

"You mean, when I hated his guts?"

"Like that, yes." The Chief's mirth overflowed again: "Ooh, haw, hoo! Of course you did!"

Klaus reminded himself of the impropriety of brawling with a superior officer, especially in the presence of another superior. "May I smoke?"

"Not yet. Stop trying to get yourself tossed out for your slovenly habits. You're staying and he's staying."

Eberbach sat back up, centered in the chair, spine straight. "Yes, sir." Then, casually and confidently, he reached into a pocket for cigarettes and matches. He lit one, puffed at it for a moment, and tapped the first ash onto the office floor. He wished the Chief had a carpet.

Whatever the Chief would have said to that was silenced by the specialist's "Hmm," and his fingertip tapping the desk. "Chief, would you let me speak to the Major?"

"Eh? Oh, of course." The Chief rose and, to Klaus's surprise, left the office with no more than a final, "Hoo, haw!" and a lewd snuffle.

The light, when he had gone, seemed less oppressively bright, and there was something Klaus should remember…

He didn't know what it was. He didn't need to know.

"My name is Sigmund Freud," said the specialist. "And you are Hieronymous Bosch." Klaus sighed, relaxing in truth, and put the cigarette down to burn itself out. He'd seen this man before, innumerable times. His name didn't matter.

"Please give all the details you can recall about your meeting with Ambassador Ulkut."

Klaus recited an exhaustive account of that conversation, including the Ambassador's lateness, taste in coffee, all pauses and shifts of emphasis, and his own calculations at the time on Ulkut's veracity and capabilities for deceit. When he reached the passage which included his own sharp dismay at knowing he'd have to call on Eroica, unbearably vivid now in total recall, "Sigmund Freud" stopped him. "Go on to the next thing Ulkut said."

"It was," Klaus shifted to the Ambassador's careful English. "'I shall hope to hear of… your progress within the day.'" Klaus added, "His eyes were on his coffee cup at first, but before 'your' he paused and pulled himself straight in the chair…" His descriptions were in German, and so were the specialist's questions: upper-class Köln-flavored Hochdeutsch. It was the voice of home.

"Good," said the questioner. "Now tell me about the incident when you as courier gave the packet to the Turkish messenger."

Several tens of meters of audio tape later, when the air temperature on that Seoul Sunday, a verbal map of Tsetse street, every twitch and nuance of the six French sentences exchanged in the drinking house, as well as a close description of the then-sealed manila envelope, had all been recorded for whatever use it might be, Klaus again came to the arrival of the Earl of Gloria into his mission, his thoughts and his bed.

"No need to go past the Turkish courier's departure," said "Sigmund Freud." "When did you next see the envelope? Describe the circumstances and the envelope as closely as possible."

"In the Arts Hall, in the smaller office waiting room," started Klaus. Sticking to the exact facts did not spare him thinking about Eroica this time, and he reproduced their English conversation, including Eroica's precise intonations. He also detailed his suspicions and fears of the English thief, not knowing what the specialist would make of them. Perhaps Herr Doktor Freud would be able to tell Klaus what he wanted. Klaus didn't know.

"Do you think Eroica's intrusion into the operation was intentional?" asked Freud.

"I… have judged not. When he brought me the packet that night, I chose to believe his story. Under the circumstances, my judgement is not sound."

"Why did you continue his involvement? When you asked him to return the envelope to its course through Turkish hands?"

"I believed at the time that he had removed it from the placement NATO desired. If, as I believed, he was truthful about his motives, he was the individual best suited to return it without alerting its current, Turkish owner."

"And you did believe he was honest with you."

"We had had some conversation on the subject previously. I believed it."

"Do you still?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you are influenced by the intimacy of your situation with him?"

Klaus had wondered that himself, nonstop, since the night meeting at the Arts Hall; he did not bother to be offended by Doktor Freud's directness. "I would like to think I am not; but my reaction was not reasoned. I did not evaluate him then. I trusted his word."

"Because you wanted to believe your selection of lover was wise?"

"I did not select him."

"All right. Then, because you did not want to find that your lover was not trustworthy?"

The questions were voiced neutrally, inviting Klaus to answer, not accusing. Nevertheless, he did not like them.

"Eroica, within the strictly defined limits of the jobs we have given him, has been extremely successful, often under adverse conditions. When he amuses himself by expanding on his instructions for his own profit, it is never at the expense of the job as stated. I see no reason to doubt his statements in this case."

"Particularly not, as they are consistent with his loyalty to you."

"That is something NATO has exploited shamelessly," said Klaus. Detached as he was, he gave it as a statement of fact. It was a fact he had participated in.

"It is understandable that you want your lover safe," said Freud, "but have you asked him what he wants? He's more than able to take care of himself."

"In many situations, yes. Against NATO's opponents," Klaus gazed at the unmemorable beardless face, utterly unlike the historical Freud's, "he's out of his league. If he becomes identified with my operations and is captured…"

"…you'd do your utmost to retrieve him. As you would for any of your subordinates. Wouldn't you?"

"Of course. That is not the question. Eroica does not have their defenses."

"He has other defenses. Think of his situation. Eroica has been hiding in plain sight, in British society, for years. Why hasn't he been caught?"

"Luck."

"Not after this long. There was, for example, that incident at the Vatican." Klaus remembered it clearly and fully, in all its confused pain. He'd got the better of Eroica there. Had Dorian liked it? Probably not, but he'd gone through with it. And it had not ended Klaus's association with Eroica.

The specialist went on, after a moment, "Misdirection of that scope is a skill the agents in your Department should find useful."

"Eroica has said that it is an art rather than a skill."

"How do you interpret that?"

"I don't know how. Eroica says such things frequently. I don't understand them. He is always pestilentially annoying, involving himself in my cases without need or reason. Is that an art or a skill?"

Freud chuckled. "Both, perhaps. For what reasons did he become your lover?"

Klaus said stiffly, "His, I cannot answer for. Mine… are not easy to isolate." Klaus could pinpoint nothing except vast irritation with the petty annoyances of courier work, to account for his having taken Dorian's offer. That was no reason whatever. He normally found such annoyances invigorating.

"Perhaps," suggested Freud, "you wanted to provoke your Chief in a personal way."

Klaus wished he'd thought of that at the time; it would have added some relish to his growing terror over the past few days. "No. It was…" he felt his skin heat, "…my own desire. For Dorian." How had he come to be answering a question like that in a debriefing?

"Very well, that's probably the best reason you could have." Freud leaned back, changing the angle of eye-contact. "It's a great advantage to the Department that you can't be bought," he said. Klaus wondered if that was a non sequitur. "And I'm aware that's due as much to your character as your fortune. But everyone has a price: sometimes it's a person. I knew it wasn't Marie, and so perhaps did you."

His liaison with Marie von Eisler had been brief. He did not recall mentioning it to NATO, not even during one of these interviews in the twilight… He stared anew at Freud. "I won't remember this conversation, will I?"

The specialist smiled. "Very good, Major. Yes. And I appreciate your cooperation, without which this interview could not take place."

"What would?"

"A somewhat less pleasant interview, after which we'd take the first excuse—such as the Earl of Gloria—to send you home for an indefinite rest."

"Is that what this is about?"

"Dorian Red Gloria, yes. Marie could not have influenced you. Can Gloria?"

"Influence? For what?"

"To go against the requirements of your duty to NATO, for example."

"I have already done so, by my relationship with him."

"Aside from that. The requirements of your Department are both more and less flexible than many. Your proven abilities are suitable, and rare; your private life may be allowed some leeway."

This acceptance of indecency left Klaus blinking in surprise. "I… suppose that's how the Chief is tolerated."

"Not your business. Would you ever put Eroica's safety or needs ahead of NATO's on a job?"

"No."

"That's what I thought." Freud's voice was quick and curious. "You're a very interesting man, Major. I know a lot about you by now, but none of it quite explains you."

"How so?" The Major had had enough of explaining himself. Let Herr Doktor Freud try it.

"You've more property and money than anyone but the richest industrialists. Your family line includes Hapsburgs and Castilian kings; however noisily we kicked you out, it wouldn't keep you from being welcome anywhere, to do anything you wanted, or nothing if you wanted. Yet you choose to spend your time running errands for NATO."

"My background explains that, I believe." His father, and his father's father, back to the Prussians, the Junkers. Probably back to the Goths. There were stone heaps at Eberbach, older than the Roman roads, with burned Roman bones inside. The Eberbachs defended what was theirs. "None of those ancestors sat idle."

"Perhaps you're right."

"I would like to make a condition of my own. To this new state of affairs."

Freud's eyebrows rose, but he nodded. "Yes?"

"Eroica does not go out on any job without me."

"That will be his choice. He is an expert specialist. He may choose to accept any assignment we offer him."

"Has he ever agreed to work on something without me?"

"That's not a question I can answer. Your concern is interesting. Will your lover share it?"

That word again. That true word. Klaus set his teeth and said, "I shall discuss it with him."

"Please do," said Sigmund Freud. "Please do, Herr Bosch."

# # #


	6. A Shadow Like an Angel With Bright Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Bonn to Eberbach

Dorian spent an enlightening hour chatting with Mr. G, who alone of the agents in the office was less than frantically busy. Like all of Klaus's agents, G had an excellent memory, and their reminisces of the Fercis affair and certain adventures in Alaska passed the time pleasantly. Dorian ignored, politely, the hints toward a future meeting, made a show of regret, and excused himself to wander the building. Klaus had barely spoken to him since their arrival in Bonn; what did he plan to do after reporting? What would he be allowed to do? What might he do anyway?

Klaus was waiting for Dorian, or at least waiting, in the severely clean and esthetically innocuous entrance lobby of the building, sitting in a perfect haze of cigarette smoke despite the "Nicht Rauchen" notices. Dorian's suitcase was on the floor beside him.

He looked up at Dorian's entrance, said nothing. Dorian didn't know if that was good or bad.

"Hello."

"Guten Abend." Klaus put out his cigarette. "We may both leave for the night. Where do you wish to go?"

That was fair enough. Klaus had dragged him off to Germany without warning. Dorian was only surprised that Klaus had noticed the imposition; or did the question mean more? "I know of some good hotels in Cologne, or would you rather I stayed at your place?"

Klaus looked at him for a moment through the blue-gray cloud, face quite blank, and said merely, "Yes."

That wasn't quite unambiguous. Dorian picked up his suitcase and followed the Major out to his car. They'd go wherever they went, Dorian supposed. Gambling on Klaus had added no end of fascination to his life, especially lately.

The Major drove, within the city, with absolute correctness and at exactly the speed limits. On the Autobahn, he covered the shortest possible line from one point to another at the greatest possible speed, pushing the Benz to its safety margin. Dorian, undecided on whether to be terrified or entertained, settled for admiring his lover's profile while Klaus concentrated on the road. The straight, long nose and emphatic brows intrigued him as much as anything about Klaus.

When they pulled up in a courtyard at last, it was at Eberbach. Dorian unclenched one hand from the door fittings and said, "I think I like it."

"Eh?"

"The speed, the singular concentration on an objective, the sensuous power of the machine, the hammering of pistons in cylinders, the…"

"Are you attempting to be offensive?"

"Yes. How am I doing?"

"As ever," said Klaus. Two male figures in livery had appeared from a massive boar-blazoned door. Dorian thought that was a lot of honor for his one suitcase. "Please try not to frighten my servants. They are not accustomed to madmen."

Dorian grinned and followed Klaus across the brick paving to the shadowed entry.

# # #

"We may be summoned to follow Katya Delannes at any time," said Klaus at dinner, which was served by an imposing number of footmen in a hall empty but for themselves, the servitors, and a couple of suits of armor too small for today's army.

"I see. Me, too?" asked Dorian, spooning up potato soup that would not have disgraced a Michelin star. Klaus wasn't touching his.

"NATO wishes you to continue on this mission. I do not approve."

"What else did NATO say about me?"

"Ask them."

"I did."

Dorian remembered every minute of his interview with the Chief after Klaus had been sent away. He'd leaned back gracefully in his chair and fingered a lace ruffle—he particularly liked this shirt, as Peters very well knew—and smiled ingenuously.

"What do you want to know?" he inquired sweetly.

"Just give your account of the events in your own words." The Chief's eyes were sharper than Dorian liked.

"Am I being recorded?" he inquired, all innocent excitement.

"Yes."

"Good. I hate repeating myself." The Earl smiled again and proceeded to speak of the last three days in copious detail. "…so I brought it to Klaus, and he demanded where I'd found it, and I told him, 'in the Turkish Ambassador's mistress's desk safe.' He'd been blustering before—you know how he is—but he went all white and quiet then…"

Considering the amount of interesting information he had to leave out, Dorian thought it was a good story, full of the kind of material that lent support to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. And it was absolutely true, as far as it went. "…I knew from one of my people, Jones, that someone always visited the Delannes house in the early evening, but except when she was entertaining there, she'd spend the night in the Turkish embassy complex."

"How does Jones know these things?" interposed the Chief.

"I don't ask. He's reliable."

"We will need to speak to him, and to Mr. Bonham, and any others of your, ah, support staff who are involved in this operation." The Chief held up a pudgy hand before Dorian could speak. "Yes, we will reimburse their travel expenses. I will not authorize a second job fee." Dorian closed his mouth, tried not to smile too broadly, and said: "So I phoned the Major at midnight and we drove to the house in one of my cars…"

He detailed the night's search without significant variation from the version he'd given while Klaus was present. "And the picture?" asked the Chief. "Can you tell me anything more about it?"

"It wasn't signed," said Dorian. "It looked like a scene from southern France, but I'm not an historian and I can't say why I thought that. That's merely what I thought at the time, in passing."

He tried to reproduce the sketch in pencil and handed the result to the Chief. "It's barely an approximation, I hope you realize."

"I know your approach to reality, Lord Gloria," said the Chief. "What did you do after discovering the document was missing?"

"We drove back to the Arts Hall and went to the security office. The Major did tell me to stay there, but I wanted to hear what my people had found and I wanted some breakfast, so I walked out and went home to my hotel. And before I'd talked to anyone except my accountant, who'd just come back from a vacation and didn't know anything, your Major followed me to the hotel suite and said we'd missed one flight out of Seoul already." Dorian flashed the Chief a conciliatory smile. "If that's true, it is my fault. The Major hadn't told me before, you see, how quickly we should be leaving. And after that I came with him to the airfield and we took a Danish transport jet all the way back here. I never did get a proper breakfast. Or lunch…"

Dorian expanded fancifully on the hardships endured at NATO's hands in the past 24 hours. When he was quite done, to the last elaborate flourish of tapering fingers and lace-cuffed wrist, the Chief sat back and made a face. "What else happened?"

Dorian shrugged. "What?"

"Lord Gloria, have you finally seduced my best agent?"

Dorian's eyes opened wide. "Is he your best?"

"Don't repeat it or I'll call you a liar. In public. Answer the question."

Dorian spread his hands, gracefully. "As you know, I have been endeavoring to seduce him since I first saw him." He paused and decided against fiddling with his hair. "Well, the second time. The first time, it was just a bluff."

"And this time?"

"He's quite stubborn."

"Yes, or no, Gloria!"

"You're really very good at this, Chief." Dorian considered lying, and decided it wouldn't answer. The Chief knew what he was looking for: in fact he knew rather too well. "Yes, I did," admitted the Earl, and sat back with the tiniest of satisfied smiles. "Is that why you wanted a separate debriefing?"

"In part. How is he taking it?" There was a hint of too-close interest in the Chief's tone.

Dorian threw back his head, teased a curl out of his mane to play with, and took in an extremely delighted-sounding breath. He leaned forward with the air of one prepared to exchange intimate confidences. "He's very handsome, you know," he said with dulcet emphasis, "and, well…" He drew it into about eight syllables, fluttering his eyelashes meanwhile.

"Will it affect his work?" asked the Chief, hastily.

Having got the conversation back where he wanted it, Dorian dropped the curl and the artifice. "I don't believe so. You will, of course, wish to judge for yourself."

The Chief gave him a very measuring look. "You've got a nerve, Gloria."

Dorian shrugged, simply. "Thank you. I have had to." His light tone should have sounded effortless, but he suspected that the strain was showing somewhere.

"I appreciate your talents… and not the ones you are doubtless anxious to boast of at the moment." The Chief chuckled, but warily.

"And Major Eberbach's talents?" asked Dorian.

"I trust you will not obstruct him in any way."

Dorian sighed in private irony. "Quite the contrary, Chief. I trust you will not obstruct my seduction."

"It depends." The Chief studied Eroica for a moment. "The clever bastard. He's got you on a string now, hasn't he?"

Dorian met his eyes squarely. "That's a crude way of putting it."

"Are you still willing to work for us, Lord Gloria?"

"You know the answer to that."

The interview with the Chief had produced no more definite an answer than that. Dorian wasn't sure the time for definite answers had arrived yet, as he thought about the Chief and watched Klaus taste his soup and put the spoon back down. Klaus's soup and Dorian's empty bowl were taken away and beef and vegetables were brought.

"I asked the Chief," said Dorian, "but I don't think I was very subtle about it. He must have said something to you."

"Yes, he must have." Klaus was unreadable.

"Well?"

Klaus gave him a full-force gaze of total neutrality, for about 30 very long seconds. "I think I like these greens. What would you say?"

Nonplused, Dorian agreed that the asparagus was excellent. Klaus informed him of the German name for it, and lapsed again into silence.

NATO hadn't tossed the Major—or even Eroica—out of the operation, yet. That was all. Perhaps it was enough to explain the unforthcoming air of Dorian's very unforthcoming lover. Demonstrating cooperation on the Delannes case could do them no harm, and meanwhile… "Can we expect a night's sleep?"

"Probably," said Klaus, with the same lack of expression. It wasn't how he behaved when he was anxious about a mission. Dorian wondered if the Major could be nervous about something else. Could he? "In a few hours," continued the object of his thoughts, "Mr. A will arrive in Bonn, with more data. I'll be needed then, or before if anything vital comes to light."

"A few hours?"

"At ten tomorrow morning."

"That means we have," Dorian calculated rapidly, "fourteen hours to ourselves."

The Major gave him a modified hint of the full-force gaze. "Yes."

Dorian smiled. "Good."

# # #

"Splendid," said Dorian, from the bedroom assigned to him. He was not looking at the room, but at his host, who stood with still-unreadable poise in the doorway. "Just splendid. Do come in." The servant who had led them here had departed a moment before.

Klaus took a step inward and shut the door behind himself, not dropping the shuttered, bland look. He could mean anything. "Dorian."

"I'm here."

"If I stay, you'll…"

Dorian felt like cheering. "We'll make love. Won't we?"

Klaus seemed to be at a loss for anything to say. Time stretched until the silence finally yielded a single, low-voiced word. "Yes." Klaus didn't move.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Well?" He let his eyes wander over Klaus for a moment. "Quite splendid. The view is unsurpassed. Shall I go on?"

"No." Klaus walked slowly over to him and grasped him by the shoulders. Dorian found himself eye-to-eye with steely determination, although exactly what Klaus was determined to do was still not entirely clear. Even now, Dorian couldn't quite believe it would not be a violent rejection, on NATO's behalf if not Klaus's own.

He returned the look. Gambling on Klaus was his chosen game. "You go on, then. Are you staying?"

Klaus sighed and released his shoulders, and, with precision, began to unbutton Dorian's shirt. He said conversationally, "The door to this room can be locked," as he removed a sky-blue silk scarf from Dorian's neck. He unwound it gingerly, grimaced at it, and laid it neatly on the room's dressing stand.

"That's good," said Dorian. "_Is_ it locked?" He could not resist reaching up to run his fingers through Klaus's hair while Klaus went back to his shirt buttons. Being undressed was delicious.

"Yes. I have told Jurgen where I am to be found, if I am needed. I am not sure this was wise."

"Somebody has to know," said Dorian, practically. He let his hands wander downward to open Klaus's suit jacket and explore inward. That was delicious, too. "Don't you trust any of your servants?"

"I must know whether I can do so."

"Trust," said Dorian, and kissed the smooth black hair as Klaus concentrated on his belt buckle, "works better than fear. Please don't stop there."

The moving hands went on without hesitation to deal with Dorian's fly, and he recalled that shyness and inconclusive action were not, in general, normal for Klaus. Nor would they be, it seemed. Warmth tightened in Dorian's groin as his clothing and Klaus's was laid aside, piece by neatly folded piece. This must be how Klaus undressed himself; Dorian felt obscurely flattered.

The bed, behind him, was becoming prominent in Dorian's thoughts. He'd barely glanced at it, but now was as good a time as any to try it out. He put an arm around Klaus's bare, hard-muscled waist and tugged. They landed sprawling on a lace-decked coverlet, a position Dorian found intriguing if not comfortable. Klaus, sprawled beside him, said nothing but smiled rather terrifyingly, and pulled him up to sit so that he could begin easing off Dorian's half-boots.

That was a good idea. Dorian retaliated by unlacing Klaus's shoes, and tossed them toward the dressing stand. Moments later, their trousers and all other impedimenta had been cast aside, carelessly folded or not folded at all. Dorian flung back the scratchy coverlet and pulled Klaus after him onto the cedar-smelling linen—it was odd not to have roses in the room somewhere. He put both arms around the lovely, lean-contoured body to feel it full-length against his own.

Klaus must have shaved before dinner, and he smelled very clean. _Well_. Dorian decided not to comment on that, just as Klaus leaned forward in a gesture half fearful and wholly unpracticed, to touch Dorian's mouth with his own. _Well, well_. Delighted, Dorian freed one hand to cup Klaus's head, making the most of the kiss, tasting what Klaus could not put into words; feeling the flare of his own arousal.

Finally Klaus pulled away and sat up again, looking down at Dorian for a moment as if he'd never seen him before. Dorian didn't speak, and hardly knew what to expect. It was Klaus's move. He'd waited forever for Klaus to make this move.

A long-boned hand reached to lay itself palm-down over Dorian's racing heart, lightly, as if curious how his skin would feel under its fingers. It slid down his ribs to a hip, moved to curl delicately around his incipient erection. At that, heat pulsed up in Dorian's groin and he could not restrain a squirm, but Klaus's hand slipped away to stroke up his farther flank. A second hand touched him, with equally tentative boldness.

Its light caress was maddeningly slow, but Dorian was not really sorry. Klaus's eyes were intent and his impassive face was a defense against the unknown: whatever Klaus's relations with the opposite sex (or anyone at all) had included, Dorian would have bet a small Tintoretto—Klaus had one, downstairs—that idle or unnecessary touching of skin had not been a concern for either party. Klaus's hands were discovering a new pleasure, and the thought as well as the touch spread prickling excitement through Dorian.

Presently, one hand wandered back toward Dorian's groin and settled there, still acting as if Klaus had never seen anything like it before. Nevertheless, the careful, stroking fingertouches had him squirming, aching for more. Dorian wriggled closer to Klaus until he was curled over the seated man's lap and could lay his head against the beautiful, flat abdomen and could kiss it, inhaling the faint odor of sweat and the stronger one of male sex. His hair brushed Klaus's body and he leaned sideways to rub it, silkily, where he'd just kissed. There was a quick tightening of the pressure around his erection.

It felt nice. All of it. Dorian nuzzled again at the neatly arrayed muscles, feeling them twitch, then moved lower to lick at sensitive, rising flesh that quivered under his tongue. He wanted Klaus to feel that, now, as well.

Klaus gasped, then let his breath out shakily. One hand rose to skim with weightless encouragement over Dorian's hair. He took in another audible breath, and Dorian licked again, further, tasting harsh saltiness and searching for more.

Klaus let go of Dorian to fall back onto the mattress, his gasping barely controlled. Dorian happily repeated the tongue-stroke and expanded it: he appreciated a good audience, very nearly as much as a good performance… perhaps more so, this time. The enticing pleasures of taste and touch and controlling action were carrying him as well as Klaus to the brink of climax; Dorian's erection throbbed in sympathy but he would not, quite, have traded places. He continued.

Only when Klaus was breathing quietly again, did Dorian slowly release his lover and push himself upright to look at Klaus's face, smiling irrepressibly in triumph.

Klaus's eyes opened, aware of himself and of Dorian. He still did not speak, but raised one arm, hand spread in invitation. Dorian, aching with love as well as desire, laid himself into the offered arm and pressed his body urgently against Klaus's, kissing his right cheekbone and temple and finally his open mouth. His lust was overwhelming, and fiercely redoubled by knowing Klaus had felt the same, and remembered it.

Klaus accepted the frantic kiss, his body moving to ease Dorian's. A hand slid unhurriedly but directly down Dorian's belly, and the grip it found was experimental, almost awkward, but sweetly effective. Dorian buried his face in Klaus's neck as he was driven to a painfully intense orgasm, conscious of the man in his arms even at the peak of that inner flight. He wanted nothing more: Klaus had responded to him and was making love to him and would not turn away afterward.

Long after the last echoes of sensation had died away, he lay silent in Klaus's arms. Klaus's left hand stroked slowly up and down his back with the same touch as before, that had never felt a human body and wanted, for the first time, to know one. Dorian accepted the wordless communication, hoping he could spend forever like this, if he could stay awake to enjoy it.

After a time long enough that the room was fully dark, Klaus's arms tightened with a little more purpose, enough that Dorian was ready when he said, in an unfamiliar voice, "So."

"Yes," said Dorian. Whatever it was, he agreed.

Another purposeful motion provided a sheet to cover them both from the cooling night air. "Dorian?"

"Umm-hmm." Dorian kissed a convenient portion of collarbone.

Klaus's voice was solemn and almost uncertain. "Dorian, have you considered how difficult this will be?"

Dorian was willing to concede anything from this position, but, "How do you mean, difficult?"

"I don't know how we will behave together."

"You're a fast learner."

"Don't laugh at me, you… frivoller. I mean that we may have to work together. On this operation for NATO, perhaps others. If you still wish to."

"Do you think you'll still be working for NATO, then?"

Dorian felt the body wrapped around him stir, and Klaus gave an annoyed-sounding rasp of laughter. "The Chief wouldn't let me resign. He was most offensive about it."

"Your Chief is a holy terror and he deserves all the trouble we can give him. If NATO's still willing to pay me, I'll consider the jobs. I'm quite fond of Deutschmarks, and I just love the fringe benefits." Dorian wriggled meaningfully and settled with his lips next to Klaus's ear. "Why not?"

"I don't know how you are accustomed to treat your… bedmates…"

"You don't?" asked Dorian, unable to resist an exaggerated drawl of amazement.

Klaus's arms tightened around him painfully. "…in public. It must not become evident that we are…"

"Lovers?" said Dorian softly. "I'll try not to embarrass you, you know." He wriggled again. "Does that mean no kissing in the streets?"

"I hope that is a joke. Assuredly not."

"Actually, I'd worry if you changed that much. Kissing in bed's much more interesting. There are so many more possibilities." Dorian snuggled closer and kissed, delicately, just underneath the ear he'd been whispering into.

"Tonight has been interesting already," said Klaus sternly.

"Just an example." Dorian rubbed his cheek over a strand of smooth hair on the pillow. "But you knew what I meant, didn't you?"

"I see. Yes. Do you think you could sleep now?"

"Please," said Dorian. The idea had definite merit after this long, long day that had started last midnight in Seoul.

"As soon as we have a lead, I… someone… must reach Delannes before she can take that information any further."

"The stuff in that envelope?" No one had explained it to Dorian.

Klaus nodded on his shoulder, there in the warm dark bed.

"What's in it, anyway?"

"I don't need to know, yet. I thought you'd seen it."

"I read it, but I'm no good with technical jargon, not even French technical jargon. It was just gibberish to me."

"Ah. Good." Klaus put his head back onto Dorian's shoulder. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yes," said Dorian instantly_. Yes, my steely beloved._ "Are you?"

"I don't know," said Klaus, but a moment later he was asleep.

# # #

A mellow electronic whistle woke Dorian from sound sleep. He glanced at the room, at the windows, and felt the body beside him start from slumber. It was morning at Eberbach, the sun well into the summer sky. Dorian located the noise source as a compactly modern telephone which—for reasons he did not regret in the least—had quite escaped his notice last night. He picked up what he guessed to be the receiver. "Hallo."

He half expected a German greeting, but a confident voice said, "Good morning, Lord Gloria. I apologize for interrupting your sleep, but I have instructions from the master that you are to be awakened at this hour."

"I see," said Dorian. He glanced down and met wary, pale-green eyes. "Thank you." Klaus pulled a hand out of the bedclothes and looked at his bare wrist, then at the bedside clock's digital readout.

"There will be breakfast whenever you get up," persisted the voice.

"Good. Breakfast, you say?" Klaus nodded at him. "Give me half an hour. Good morning." Dorian replaced the receiver on its streamlined stand and raised an eyebrow at Klaus. "He said 'the master' left a message to wake me?"

"Jurgen came here when my grandfather was alive. It is traditional." _That is how we do things here_, said Klaus's tone.

"That might explain a lot."

Klaus was out of bed already, picking up his clothes, dressing rapidly. "I'll see you at breakfast." He saw Dorian looking about uncertainly. "I believe there is a bathroom behind… here." Klaus pulled open an 18th-century door to reveal a glitter of plumbing that rivalled the telephone's modernity.

"Not so fast, Quinquin." Dorian nipped out of the bed as well and wrapped his enjoyably naked body around the clothes Klaus had put on to walk down one corridor so that he could change them. "Once we're out there, I can't touch you."

Klaus, stiff with surprise, relaxed fractionally. "So you know that much."

"I've always known that much. Why do you think I'm such a clown half the time? Clowns can break the rules. That way, it's me breaking them, not you." Dorian held him, hard, for a moment. "I do love breaking rules."

"You are frivolous." Klaus permitted himself to be held, and a thrill shot through Dorian as hands closed on his bare waist, palms curving closely to his skin.

"I surely am. Klaus my love…" He shrugged against the clothes, inside the hands. "That's all I wanted to say, before we leave. Klaus my love."

Klaus stood dumb. Slowly, he pulled Dorian against him, returning the embrace without restraint; just as slowly he released it. Dorian felt felt a definite answering push at his groin, before: "Dorian. We have no time." The words were unyielding and final.

He sighed and stepped back. "See you at breakfast?"

Klaus nodded and quickly left the room.

# # #

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are extracted from Shakespeare's Richard III, on a whim. No similarities with the play are intended.


End file.
